The Bite of a Blade, the Sting of an Arrow
by Shadows-Dancing-In-The-Hall
Summary: Audrey's life had never been easy. The walkers were a new twist, but surviving pain and loss was nothing she hadn't lived through before. But...Daryl Dixon was new too. And Audrey doesn't know what to make of him. Daryl/OC
1. Endless Numbered Days

_**Hey there :) Thanks for clicking on my story :D This will eventually follow the aired seasons of The Walking Dead but the first few chapters will be backstory on my OC :) Tell me what you think :D**_

**_Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead or any characters therein. I only own my OC and specific plot concerning her. :)_**

**_Enjoy!_**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Endless Numbered Days<strong>

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><p><em>My lungs were on fire; each breath a hot iron carving out a pound of flesh from my chest. It hurt, God it fucking <em>_**hurt**__, but I had to keep going. I couldn't stop. Stopping meant quitting; stopping meant failure. _

_Stopping meant death. _

_And I haven't survived this long to just give into the weakness of my body. _

_So, I pumped my arms faster; I pushed my legs to the limit; I heaved gulps of air into my burning lungs even though it tasted of death, thick, cloying and decaying as it slid down my throat like fetid water. _

_I was __**not **__going to die here. I refused. This god-forsaken city that had forsaken me long ago would not claim the remainder of my life. It had taken the first half; I wasn't about to let it take the rest. _

_Breathing fast, I darted across the street, dodging the burnt out shells of cars and the crush of panicked people, my feet crunching over shattered glass and broken things. A snarl twisted my lips as shadows danced in the streets, created by the towering fires flaring throughout the city, by the flocks of people, running, screaming, pleading for help. But I didn't stop, even when I wanted to; even when I could hear children crying; even when I saw someone go down hard, hurt and bleeding. Because I couldn't __**know**__; couldn't know if they were safe, if they were healthy, if they were __**alive. **__So, though I knew it saved me a special spot in hell, I kept running, not stopping, not letting myself even look._

_It felt as if I had been running for hours. How long could I keep this up? My body wasn't made for this kind of endurance. How much farther could I run before my lungs just collapsed from the strain of pulling in jagged breaths? How long was it until my legs buckled underneath the strain of this frantic, full tilt sprint? _

_How long was it until __**they **__caught me? _

_I shuddered at the thought. No, I wouldn't think of that. I would keep running, keep moving. Left, right, in, out. Keep running. Keep-_

_Suddenly, my foot caught on something, and I went sprawling into the ash-covered asphalt, rocks and grit digging into my cheeks and the heels of my hands. A grunt of pain slipped past my chapped lips but I was already scrambling up, adrenaline and panic eclipsing all else as the noises behind me grew louder and louder. _

_Those noises, they sent shivers through my body as I rounded a building, my pack slamming into my spine with every jarring step. It wasn't the sound of pain and panic that the city was fraught with, though those would haunt me until the day I died. It was the __**other**__ things, the things that shouldn't be but inexplicitly were. Everyone who was left was terrified of those noises, the moans and growls that made your hairs stand on end and your heart skip a beat. The feral snarls of wild things that wanted to devour you, tear you open, feast on all you had been and all you ever would be. _

_They were the sounds of demons, of monsters. They were the sounds of…_

_All of the sudden, I rounded a corner, ratty converse skidding on debris, and ran headlong into something soft, something putrid. A yelp clawed its way out of my throat as I stumbled backwards, understanding causing my right hand to shoot over my left shoulder, grappling and searching. My eyes were quick to adjust to the gloom of the alley, pupils dilating as I saw the thing I had slammed into jerk forward, reaching for me with clenching fingers. Instinctively, I tried to twist away, terror acidic in the back of my throat, but my feet stuttered, unbalanced, and a bony hand grasped my wrist. I screamed as I fell forward, my hand still clutching behind me as I looked up into the thing's face. _

_It was the image of a nightmare. The eyes were wide and bulging, rheumy and bloodshot above the gapping hole of his nasal cavity. Its skin, the parts that were whole and intact, not hanging in decaying tatters, was sallow and streaked with gore, painted red and brown and all the other colors of abject carnage. But it was its __**mouth**__ that I stopped on, that froze the blood in my veins to the coldest of ice. The lips of this thing had been ripped off, by whom or what I would never know, but the teeth were still solid and they snapped at me with a horrible, frenzied, clicking noise that echoed over the roaring of blood in my ears. Horrified, I stared as the thing's mouth grew closer and closer, gaping wide as a slew of growls and snarls issued forth. I screamed and struggled but it paid me no mind, its mouth closing in on my neck. _

_Then, an indescribable feeling coursed through every inch of my body as my hand found what it had been searching for, moments before the thing pulled my wrist into its mouth. Gritting my teeth, I yanked my hand forward and swung with all my might at the monster's head, my right arm coming around in a great, wide arch. _

_There was a flash of silver and then a jarring collision before my arm continued through its momentum, smashing into the wall to my right. Warmth splattered me, a spray of fetid liquid, and then I was released, my body flying back. The fall slammed my head into the side of a car, the impact causing my vision to flicker and my ears to ring. My breathing thundering in my ears, I pushed myself into a sitting position, holding my head as it swam, and gazed at the remains of the thing that had tried to kill me. _

_I couldn't see the body, it was hidden in the shadows of the alley, but the head lay not three feet from me and, I blinked in abject revulsion, bile roiling in my gullet, because, God help me, __**it was still moving**__. Heaving, I flung me head side to side, searching for my weapon, hysteria building like a tsunami in my chest. However, a flash of silver beside me alerted me to its presence half under the car I had fallen against. Reaching out with shaking hands, I grasped the handle, and pulled, the gore-stained sword coming free with a rasp and the blood streaked steel gleaming in the light of the burning city. Biting my lip, I turned back to the snapping head that was attempting to squirm its way towards me and got unsteadily to my feet. _

_Time seemed to stop as I stood there, staring down at this creature. The burning city faded into the background, the screams and moans all bleeding into white noise. The rheumy eyes gazed up at me and I gazed right back but…there was nothing…human behind them, not hatred, not anger…not anything. It just writhed there, slow and mechanical and empty as it moaned for my flesh and blood. I looked down at the creature, lip curling in revulsion, fury, and something akin to pity. _

_This…monster was no longer human. It used to be, used to be someone's son, maybe someone's father, but not anymore. It was less than an animal now, driven by the most basic instincts to feed and feed and feed. Killing it would be a mercy, a god send. _

_And yet…and yet…_

_Images of the past few days flickered through my head, a horrific film that I wish I could erase. All those faces, faces I had known, I had loved, all __**gone**__. I wish I could forget, I wish I could obliterate the events of the last hours from my memory. But I couldn't; it was over, done. _

_And I had to live with it. Just as I had to live with this. _

_Tears built in my eyes, caustic and acidic as I bared my teeth in a snarl and brought the sword high above my head. My soul was already damned. I…I had to do what I needed to survive. _

"_See ya in hell," I growled at the thing biting and moaning at my feet. There was another flare of steel, a splash of warmth against my ankles, and all was silent._

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><p>My eyes snapped open with a gasp, heart hammering a stucco pattern against my rib cage as I fumbled for the hilt of my tanto. (1) Within seconds, I found the cool metal attached, as always, to my left hip. A few breathless moments slid by as I sat there heaving, fingers clenched tight on the handle, the lingering remnants of my nightmare swirling in my hazy mind, throbbing like a writhing, dying, thing. When most of the adrenaline had faded from my muscles, I swallowed past my parched throat and slumped in my position, jittery and still high strung.<p>

"Fuck," I exhaled shakily, rubbing my eyes with my left hand. I fucking hated that dream. It was bad enough I had to live through that crap once; I didn't need the memory of that night cropping up every time I closed my damn eyes.

I stayed like that for a while, hunched over and shaking as I held my head and took deep breaths to calm myself. But soon, too soon, I became aware of the day breaking around me. Turning my head slightly to the side, I wearily opened one eye and watched as the sun broke the eastern horizon, bright, orange, and blinding. The black silhouettes of birds swarmed the pink tinged skies, the rustling of the trees they were vacating only eclipsed by the awakening songs that issued from their beaks. I couldn't repress the slightly bitter smile that tugged at my lips. Talk about Nature being indifferent to man.

"_And so begins another day," _I thought. Sighing, I stretched my hands above my head, listening with satisfaction as my back and shoulders popped. Sleeping in a tree, while safer than the ground, was arguably a lot less comfortable. Especially with a hiking pack digging into one's spine all night. Once I had succeeded in waking by sore body up, which took a few minutes, I shook my head vigorously and leaned over the side of my perch, glancing down to the forest floor nearly ten feet below.

All clear. God's small mercies.

Relieved that I wouldn't have to risk my life to get down, at least not in the way I had been fearing (the height now was a different matter) I leaned back and relaxed in my seat once more. Reaching behind me, I dug around in my pack for a few moments before pulling my canteen and a bag of trail mix into my lap with a triumphant sound. A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips as I stared down at the half empty bag of nuts and melted chocolate. Breakfast of champions this was. But it would have to do.

As I ate my meager meal, I also pulled out my tattered map, laying the flimsy paper across my knees, the bright orange letters that had once said "Welcome to Georgia!", long since faded. Frowning, I traced along the lines of interstates and rivers, fingers dancing across the countryside. By my reasoning, which wasn't very sound I'll admit, I was somewhere near what had once been Marietta. I think I might have passed it two days ago.

Or maybe that had been this other little ho-hum town a bit to the left…crap. I chewed on my lip as I poured over the map, trying to remember if the highway signs that I had seen yesterday had said 20 or 75.

Ten minutes later and I was no surer than I had been at the beginning. Aggravation wrinkled my nose. Why was this so difficult? I knew how to read and I knew how to walk in a straight line so why couldn't I put the two together and follow the line of the interstate to Atlanta? It had been over a month since I left Dalton and I was still wandering the wilderness like an idiot. If Mom could see me n-

I blinked as I slammed my thoughts to a halt. No. I couldn't think of her, of them. I had things to do; I had Atlanta to navigate to; I had the journey to survive. There would be a time for her later. But it wasn't now.

Grunting in irritation, directed as per usual at myself, I turned and tucked my supplies away, shaking my canteen at the last minute to check the amount of water I had left. By the weight and noise, I would estimate half remained. My brow furrowed, and anxiety ate at my nerves. Would that be enough? Atlanta was still a day or so away and it was getting hotter by the minute. Being lost with no water in a Georgia summer is nothing I wanted to experience so maybe I should double back to the creek I had crossed yesterday and restock. It would only take a few hours.

But, on the other hand, those few hours meant that I would have to stop again once it got dark and find yet _another _tree to sleep in. That was something else I didn't want to do unless absolutely necessary.

Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Contemplating my options, I reached up absentmindedly and wrapped my fingers around the black harness hanging on the branch above me. With a few deft movements, I had unknotted the strap and pulled the long black sheath into my lap, the bright casing catching the shining light of the morning sun. All my worries, the sprinting thoughts within my brain, quieted at the sight, a bout of nostalgia washing over me as the memory of the day I had first seen this katana (2) flickered through my thoughts like the remnants of an old film.

"_A sword is not just a weapon," _I had been told. _"It is not something to be used lightly and then tossed aside to be neglected, to lie prone in rust and ruin. You must care for your sword as you care for yourself because if you do not treat it with respect, how can you expect it to respect your wishes and work for you when it is needed most?" _

It sounded cheesy but, from the bottom of my heart, I thanked the man who had told me this most absolute rule because without it, without _him, _I would have died a long time ago. A depressing thought but the truth nonetheless since I _knew _that the only reason I was yet living was because of the steel in my hands and the rules that had been drilled into me time and time again. Granted, having to scrub and scrape the gunk off that same steel every night was more than a bit tedious, something _he _would have berated me about forever for saying, but if it kept me alive I'd somehow manage.

Smiling to myself, I reverently ran my fingers against the polished scabbard. "_You're still alive and kicking old man," _I thought to myself with a chuckle. "_Kicking my ass at least." _With that, I slipped the sheath over my head and tightened the strap, sighing at the familiar weight of my katana against my back.

Ok. Enough wallowing in the past and things that would never be again. I had current problems to attend to.

Such as my water vs. shelter dilemma.

They were equally important, that much I knew. Without water, I would become dehydrated and be more prone to mistakes, both in direction and defense. But staying one more night in the woods was similarly problematic as it made me vulnerable to the things that prowled the night.

So, all in all, I was fucked either way.

….

"Ugh!"

Cursing at the hard decision I was faced with, I slid my pack on my shoulders. Of course these things could **never **be easy. Where would the fun be in that? "Fuck it," I grumbled. I'll just have to make do with the water I had. I knew how to ration; it shouldn't be too difficult.

Besides, the refugee camp in Atlanta was sure to have a plethora of supplies. I just had to get there and I'd be right as fucking rain.

Resolved, I swung my left leg over the thick branch I had slept on and shimmied down to the one below me, and the one below that one, and the one below _that _one, all the way down until I was sitting about five feet off the ground. And here came the hard part. Eyeballing the distance, I decided it would be easier to just jump straight down and roll to the side, letting my knees absorb the impact. Not the most comfortable of choices but hey, what are you gonna do. Taking a deep breath, I scooted to the edge of the branch, grit my teeth, and let myself fall.

The ground came up a lost faster, and was a lot harder, than I originally anticipated. "Oomph!" As I slammed into the hard earth the air was forced out of me, the expulsion coming out as a wheezing grunt. I winced as the rest of my body experienced the impact, my bones shaking with the collision. Great. From the feel of it, I'd be sore for a while. "_But what's new,_" I thought bitterly. One way or another, without fail, one part of my body was always aching. You learn to just deal with it after awhile.

Shaking myself, I straightened and rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the discomfort my pack had caused when I jumped. When I came to the conclusion that I would get no more comfortable, as I said you just learn to deal with it, I decided it was time to get moving. It was no use fucking around here. There were only so many hours in a day and I needed every single one of them to reach Atlanta before dark. Turning my body southeast, I skirted the tree I had been sleeping in; about to begin my long and arduous trek to the salvation that was Atlanta.

Only to come face to face with a fucking walker.

I didn't even have the chance to inhale, let alone scream. The second I rounded the tree, the thing was on me, desperate, frenzied and starving. Its skeletal hands, because the meat had either rotted or been torn off, clutched at my shoulders, my chest, anything it could reach. Fear and revulsion roared through me as its fingers tangled in my shirt and I knew I only had moments to defend myself before the thing sunk its teeth into my flesh.

Mind racing, I instinctively discarded my sword as an option; the walker was too close, I wouldn't be able to draw it. The left me only one-way out. Hand flying down to my left hip, I grasped the tanto that hung there, fingers curling around the hilt. The walker snarled at me, as if it knew what I was about to do, and redoubled its efforts to bite me.

"Not today you son of a bitch," I snarled right back. Maneuvering my left arm between the walker's body and mine, I shoved it back with all my might, simultaneously jerking the blade out of its sheath and in an upward arch. The steel opened a wide gash along the walker's chest, blood and other viscous liquids splattering everywhere, but, as expected, the creature didn't even flinch. No matter; I still hadn't reached my intended target.

However, as my blade continued its momentum to the walker's head, tip aimed straight for the underside of its chin, something unexpected happened.

I fucking fell.

One second I was grappling with this nightmarish ghoul, just about to kill it, and the next, the world was tipping backwards, the walker tipping with me. Some distant part of me pinpointed the shove I had executed as the culprit of my decline but the thought was quickly obliterated by the indescribable terror that filled me.

Because I **knew**, I knew it with more certainty than the keenness of my blade that, the second I hit the ground, the walker would devour me, its teeth locked into my skin before I could even bring the tanto back around.

And then, the realization hit me that I…I was going to die. Right here, right now, so close to my destination. And there was nothing I could do but close my eyes and accept it.

However, milliseconds before I smashed into the ground, just as I was throwing in the towel, a voice rose up from the depths of my mind, echoing and haunting. "_All the rules I have taught you are important but this, this is the most significant: you must never, __**ever, **__give up__**. **__No matter the trials, no matter the tribulations, no matter the difficulty, you must endure, you must continue on. Remember this Audrey Lara Bennett. Remember this and never forget it."_

"_You must never give up."_

"_You must endure."_

"_You must continue on."_

"_Must continue on."_

"_Must…"_

At the words, strength, a determination to live that I didn't previously have, roared through my veins. Baring my teeth in an unholy expression, I lashed out with all I had, hands and feet thrashing to get away even as I slammed into the ground. Winded, but not down, I continued to flail, trying to wrench my right arm from between the walker and I.

I was not going to die here. I was NOT GOING TO DIE HERE!

The walker, who laid on my legs and pelvis, clawed at me, teeth snapping in a feverish manner. I hit at the top of its head as hard as I could with the heel of my left hand, hoping to buy enough time to get my tanto into the equation, screaming in rage all the while. My chance came a few agonizing seconds later when the thing on top of me shifted to crawl closer and, unknowingly, freed my right hand.

Knowing this was my last chance, I ripped my arm out and brandished the tanto, the morning light glinting menacingly off the tainted steel. In that split second, I summoned all the power I could muster and brought the blade down on the crown of the walker's head.

Now, the tanto isn't as sharp or as powerful as the katana. It was made for stabbing and renting flesh in two. Slicing straight through bone, especially one as thick as the skull, was not what the Japanese had in mind when they had created it. Nevertheless, put enough force behind an object and even bone can be shattered.

With the first hit, there was a spray of blood and my whole arm vibrated with the impact. But, _thankfully,_ I also felt the giving away of the walker's skull. Encouraged, I kept hacking, kept slamming the tanto down over and over and _**over**_ again until the thing stopped moving on top of me and I was seeped in its blood. Reviled and still frightened beyond belief, I shoved the corpse off of me, scrambling away and casting my eyes about, searching for more walkers, more threats, heart racing and blood singing.

But, all was quiet.

All was still.

All was dead.

But not me. I am still alive, I am still fucking breathing.

I am still enduring.

"_Remember this Audrey Lara Bennett. Remember this and never forget it."_

"I remember Sensei," I panted to no one, dropping my head back against the trunk of a tree, eyes closed in exhaustion. "I remember."

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><p><strong>1) tanto- Japanese short sword. 5-12 inch long. Basically a dagger.<strong>

**2) katana- Japanese long sword. Curved and usually only sharp on one side. **

**Alrighty then. So how was that? :/ I've had this idea floating around my head for awhile and since i am in love with TWD, and i have nothing to currently do, i decided to post it. Any comments, questions, or concerns? :) If so please press the lovely little button below. :D**

**No seriously, please review :( I want to know if i should continue this. **

**~Shadows**


	2. What Defines Us

**Chapter 2: What Defines Us**

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><p><em><strong>Wel ome t E st Point Ge rg a!<strong>_

_**Pop: **__**39,595**_

I stared long and hard at the faded green sign, a feeling of abject disbelief burning through me. Most of the letters were peeling; some were even completely missing, but enough remained on the road sign for me to tell that I was about to enter East Point Georgia, a town once filled with nearly 40,000 people.

Well fuck me.

Seeped in complete denial, I glared down at the map clutched in my fingers, narrowing my eyes to make sure I wasn't going blind. Unfortunately, I wasn't.

"You have got to be shittin me." East Point was fucking _**south**_ of Atlanta. For me to be here, standing before this god-forsaken sign, it meant that I had bypassed my destination **completely. **Just totally hop, skipped, and jumped around a major city 8,376 square miles large.

I am the world's largest _fucking _idiot.

How did this even happen? I don't understand. Maybe this was some big joke. Maybe the survivors in Atlanta put the sign here to…to…

"_To do what," _my mind supplied sarcastically. "_Confuse the walkers? Make them think this was East Point instead of Atlanta to make them go away?"_

I growled and gnashed my teeth. Ok so that was a stupid idea. But…fuck! I just can't believe that I had done this. It was literally _impossible_…and yet I had somehow succeeded in achieving the utterly improbable. Score one for Audrey Bennett. Groaning aloud, I slumped against a flipped over car and glared death at the welcoming sign before me. "Now what," I grumbled, crossing my arms in irritation.

No answer, save one, was forthcoming. Keep going. Which, in turn, translated to…I'm screwed. Completely and royally fucked because, not only had I used all my water in the last two days trying to get to what I _thought _was Atlanta, I had also ran out of food this morning, my once plentiful stash of snacks and such totally consumed. This, this fucking town filled with approximately 40,000 walkers out to kill me was the cherry on top of the shit fest of my life.

Yup, I am totally fucked.

"Fuck!", I screamed, kicking a piece of concrete before me, the chunk of cement tumbling a few feet away. My day couldn't _possibly _get any worse.

And because the universe just _loves _to bend me over, a shuffle and groan suddenly sounded to my left. Already knowing what I was going to see, because what the hell **else **could it freaking be, I turned to see a lone corpse, half decayed, limping towards me with its teeth bared in a snarl. Estimating quickly I concluded it was still about 30 feet away and there were more than a few cars and other debris between it and I. It would be easy as hell to just turn around and walk, casually, back the way I came. But…that's not what I was going to do. Nope. Not fucking today. With deliberate slowness, I slid my pack off my shoulders, leaning it against the car behind me. Then, I rolled my shoulders and, lifting my head, I began to walk _towards _the walker.

Now, I know I should be scared but…damn I'm just so freaking angry! I never asked for any of this _shit _to happen. I never asked for the dead to fucking start walking, I never asked to **walk **halfway across Georgia with almost no food, little water, and damn dead people trying to eat me! As if my life _before _wasn't hard enough!

Reaching over my shoulder, I grasped the leather handle of my katana, listening to the rasp as I lifted it about an inch out of its sheath. "Come on you ugly bastard," I yelled, red-hot rage burning through my veins like lava. Within seconds, the thing was three feet from me and closing in, groaning for my flesh, for my blood, for my death. I grinned darkly.

"Gotcha."

In one fluid motion, I ripped my katana out of its sheath, the two-foot blade a metallic blur as it flew in a downward arch. The walker didn't stand a chance. Before it could even _touch_ me, its head was tumbling to the floor, still snapping, still "living". Indescribable fury engulfed me at the still writhing piece of meat. Grasping my katana with two hands, I brought it above my head and slammed it back down.

"**Why,**", I snarled, the blade slicing through the walker's forehead. "**Don't,**" I yanked out the blade and stabbed down again, going straight through its mouth, blood squirting everywhere. "**You,**" I pulled up and then, with all my weight, dropped to my knees, my katana cutting right into the bridge of the nose. "**Die?" **I twisted the blade, bone and brain and cartilage turning into organic slurry under the impact of my wrath.

The gurgle of leaking blood was all the answer I received.

A sudden jagged sob tore itself out of my chest as I slumped there, leaning my forehead against the hilt of my sword, covered in blood and gore and carnage. "Why," I sobbed. "Why, why, why, why, **why?**"

Why did any of this happen? Why did the dead come back to life? Why was I all alone? Why couldn't _something _ever go my way?

And why, oh why, did these fuckers **not die?**

I sat there heaving and crying like a baby for I don't know how long, watching through glassy eyes as the walker's blood snaked out in sluggish red tendrils, spreading across the asphalt like gruesome roots. Slowly but surely, my heart rate eased itself back to normal and my breathing evened out. I groaned as I came back to myself, smacking my head lightly on the cross guard of the sword. I hadn't lost control of myself like that in a while. It was stupid but…damn if it didn't feel good. Sighing, I made to sit back on my shins, as my knees were **killing **me, but all of the sudden I became aware of _noises. _Noises I knew all to fucking well. I gasped as they reverberated in my ears and snapped my head up, eyes still blurred with hot tears. But there was no mistaking the lurching gait of walkers and there was no mistaking the sounds they made when they sensed one of the living.

It seems my little performance had attracted an audience.

"Shit," I muttered, swiping my eyes against the back of my hand. I had stayed here too long. Scrambling up, I jerked my katana out of the dead walker's head and cleaned the blood on its truncated body.

Knowing that, no matter my anger, I couldn't defeat the amount of walking dead that was coming towards me, I ran back to my pack and slung it over my shoulder, glancing back to see the good size mob of walkers meandering its way over to devour me. An absentminded thought occurred to me at that moment and a trouble frown etched itself onto my lips. How was I going to get to Atlanta now if this town was overrun? I couldn't go around; I had no provisions. Biting my lip, I chanced another glance at the main road of East Point, the asphalt choking with living corpses 20 feet and closing. Perhaps I could out maneuver them?

"_Yeah and maybe they just want to be friends," _I thought dryly as they reached the 10-foot mark. Cursing, I decided I had no choice but to go back and somehow go around this city. "Aint no rest for the weary," I mumbled sardonically. Turning my back to the pack of creatures, I began to run back into the woods, to figure out what the fuck I was going to do now, no matter how sick and tired I was.

Because, though I may be weary, I had to keep going. There was no time for sitting still or resting. I had to get to Atlanta, or die while trying my hardest. Suddenly, without preamble, a snatch of poetry floated through my head and I couldn't repress a bitter smile. "The woods are lovely, dark and deep," I whispered, jumping a railing and darting into the woods. "But I have many promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep." (1)

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><p>I ran and ran and ran for nearly an hour. All I was aware of during that time was the pound of my feet on dirt and the sound of the air rushing in and out of my lungs. However, the next thing I was aware of was that the air I was heaving in and out was thinner than it ought to be. Soon after that realization, I was gasping and heaving and my head was swimming and I could barely put one foot in front of another. "<em>Damn," <em>I thought as I began to stumble to a stop. "_I'm going to pass out." _Which, given the fact that I hadn't had water since yesterday, and only a bag of peanuts for breakfast, wasn't so surprising.

Feet barely able to shuffle forward at this point, I leaned up against the closest tree I could find, eyes doing a quick, precautionary sweep of the immediate area. When I concluded it was all clear, my knees buckled and I slid to the forest floor, resting my back and head against the trunk behind me.

"_Way to go Audrey,"_ I berated myself as I sat there gasping. "_Run yourself into the ground and do the walker's job for them. Very smart."_

A few minutes later and I was no longer heaving, though the light-headedness had yet to dissipate. I needed water, that much I knew. But I would have to find a near by river or creek and for that I needed my map. Which was in my bag.

Which I really couldn't be bothered to get at the moment.

I lay there for a while, just feeling the sun on my face, the sweat cool on my skin. It was quiet here, deep in the woods. The air smelled fresh, unlike it did near towns and cities where the stench of decaying bodies, both moving and non, was so thick and cloying it made me want to hurl. It was…peaceful. And, ever since the end of the world, I had been looking for a little peace and quiet.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep," I muttered to myself, lulling my head to the side as I trailed my fingers through the grass I sat on. That's another thing I had been missing since the end of the world. Some good freaking literature. It was little hard to come by, on the run and shit but hopefully the refugee center had some. They might even have some Robert Frost. Or Emily Dickson! That would be nice; to just curl up somewhere safe and lose myself in a good book. I closed my eyes and smiled; I could just picture it.

"_But first I have to get to the camp," _I reminded myself. "_And I'm not getting any closer just sitting on my ass like a bum." _Sighing, I opened my eyes and made to get up, pressing down on the earth to get my body off of it. As I pushed down, however, the earth gave way with a wet _squelch _and my hand was suddenly covered in sticky, warm, liquid.

My whole body froze at the sensation, my eyes locked dead in front of me, refusing to look. "_Of course," _I thought. "_Cause my day just wasn't bad enough I have to go ahead and put my hand through shit or, better yet, a decaying body." _Clenching my eyes shut and pursing my lips in disgust, I brought my right hand up and shook it, feeling flecks of whatever it was flinging off my skin.

However, as I was wiping my hand off in the grass, eyes still clenched shut, a smell wafted up at me, a smell I hadn't experienced in what felt like a life time.

Peaches.

Gasping, I flung open my eyes and brought my hand to my face, gaze wide and disbelieving. I couldn't…couldn't believe it! But, sure enough, my hand was covered in that tell tale orange syrup, the pungent smell of Georgia's state fruit delving into my nose and worming into ever crevice of my brain. Saliva built in my mouth and I nearly sucked every single one of my fingers clean, such was the intensity of my hunger. But, as I turned to look at the peach I had leaned on, I was devastated to find it rotten almost completely through. I stared at the demolished and decomposing fruit in mournful horror. "_Ok, now you are just being cruel," _I thought to the universe.

…wait! Just **one **peach couldn't just appear here! If there was one here…that meant nearby had to be…

"A tree!", I exclaimed, having caught sight of the familiar plant moments after picking my head up to look. Clambering to my feet with a grin large enough to make my cheeks hurt, I stumbled towards the tree, anticipation and excitement making my mouth water. As I grew closer, I saw that a lot of the peaches had fallen from the tree, lying in a rotting disarray upon the ground. Most of the ones remaining in the tree had been pecked at my birds or nibbled at my other vermin but…but.

Near the top, like a gift from God, were a handful of seemingly wholesome peaches, just waiting for me to climb up there and get them. I bared my teeth in a challenging green. "You're mine," I told those peaches, reaching down and yanking my tanto out of its sheath. "You are mine."

Ten minutes, and a few bumps and scrapes later, and those suckers _were _mine. Chomping down on one of the larger peaches, feeling the juice dribble down my chin but not giving a _fuck, _I beamed in triumph at the six, _yes six, _big Georgia peaches that were just sitting in my lap. I shouldn't feel so proud, all I did was climb a stupid tree, but damn I felt like I should be getting a reward or something.

Still grinning, I bit into my lunch and held the peach between my teeth, reaching over to pull a bandana out of my bag. When I had the red fabric in my fingers, I spread it over my lap and tenderly placed each peach inside of it before I tied the ends together. "I might not have water but beggars can't be chosers." Having that mentality, I reopened my pack to place my treasure back inside only to have a thick yet compact book fall onto the grass.

I blinked and slowly put my peaches down, eyes riveted to the small black rectangle. Reaching out tentatively, I ran my finger across its leather face, the feel cool and familiar.

"_Happy Birthday Audrey. I know you have many books but I thought you could stand to have one more."_

The echo of a memory past fluttered across my mind, the words faint as the touch of a butterfly's wings. Swallowing thickly, I took a hold of the cover and flipped it open, the book falling open to the first page.

I looked up at myself from the book, my smile affixed, bright, and perpetual. It was…it was my driver's license, my whole life basically summed up on one piece of thin plastic.

_Bennett, Audrey_

_348 Wyrd Ave._

_Dalton, GA 30719-2491_

_Sex: F _

_DOB: 09-30-1994_

_Height: 5'4_

_Weight: 135_

And a ton of other miscellaneous shit that didn't matter now. I bit my lip. I had forgotten I had grabbed this that night the world went to hell. Cocking my head, I glanced down at my full and happy face, my green eyes sparkling above flushed cheeks, my thick and wavy brown hair tumbling down my shoulders. Who was this happy girl on this ID? It sure as hell wasn't me. My green eyes, the last time I had checked, were dull and flat, ringed by black shadows that told the story of countless sleepless nights; my cheeks were sharp and gaunt, malnourished and sickly; and my hair…my hair brushed just the underside of my jaw, the ends having met the blade of my tanto two days after I left Dalton.

I didn't know that girl in this picture. I can barely remember her.

Unsettled by that revelation, I moved to tuck the ID back into my journal but the picture that had been lurking behind my ID stopped me short. I was in this picture too but I was younger, my face rounder and more youthful as I beamed at the camera, my, then, bran new katana clutched gleefully in my fingers. But that wasn't what made me stop and stare. No, what made me freeze was the other difference between this image and my ID and that was…I wasn't alone. Behind me stood a man, an older man, with white hair and deep wrinkles and slanted brown eyes that could warm you on the coldest days. No, this man wasn't my father, he wasn't my grandfather…he was so much more than that. He was my confidant, my friend, my source of wisdom and knowledge.

He was my sensei.

I shuttered out a breath and traced the visage of my beloved teacher. His name had been Takeo Nakamura. He had lived down the street from my home and, everyday since the time I was ten, I had spent at least two hours in his presence learning, training, or sometimes just visiting. He had been the one to teach me how to fight with a sword; he had been the one to drill morals and a conscience into me when I had been an unruly and disrespectful wild child. He had been…everything to me, besides my mother.

And now…they both were gone. Tears built in my eyes but before I could let them spill, my sensei's voice once again resonated through my thoughts. "_Do not cry Audrey," _I remember him telling me as I cried over a nasty bruise training had earned me. "_There is a time for tears and a time for mourning. But it is not now. You have things that you have yet to do. Finish the tasks laid out before you; finish them and once you are done, then take the time to let the tears flow. But not before Audrey. Never before."_

I closed my eyes with a shuttering sigh. He was right, as always. I needed to keep going, I needed to finish my task. Opening my eyes, I traced his face once more. "Sorry sensei. You spent all those hours trying to teach me and I keep messing up, I keep forgetting," I murmured. But no more.

Steeling myself, I tucked the picture of sensei away, the book following. I zipped up and stood up, checking my weapons before consulting my map and choosing a direction. I was going to reach Atlanta and then I would mourn for sensei. For Mom.

But not before. Never before.

"_I remember sensei. I remember."_

* * *

><p>A few hours later found me standing on the elevated lip of a creek bed, the stream, not six feet across, gurgling below me as the midday sunlight glinted off the dips and curves of the lapping water like living diamonds. Birds sung in the trees above me, their songs warbling and lilting across the air as the leaves fluttered in the wind. The sight was truly beautiful, truly peaceful; it was quaint as could be.<p>

It was also the saddest thing I have ever seen.

I sucked on the pit of a peach, rolling the stone around my mouth. The sun was hot upon my neck, the unforgiving Georgia sun making my grubby t-shirt stick to my back. I should keep moving, I told myself I would…but I couldn't move, I could barely breathe; the sight before me had me locked in place with a sorrow so profound, I was surprised my knees hadn't buckled.

Because, before me lay five crosses, wooden and crude, but obviously the product of someone's painstaking, loving, labor. They lay along the riverbank, silent and mute, a hidden cemetery deep within the forest. Alone, it was a sad picture, this last resting place of five human beings, but what truly made it a testament of the hell our world had fallen into was that all of them, every single last one, was the grave of a child.

_Gina Mae Harris _was the name carved in the first cross. _Age 12. _

_David John Harris, age 9 _declared the second.

_Ashley Lynn Harris, age 6 _and _Marcus Steve Harris, age 6 _were the third and fourth ones.

It was the last one, though, that caused my eyes to spill over.

_Rose Lauren Harris, age 3. _

Three years old and already in the ground; God that wasn't fair. Granted, nothing in this life was fair but…fuck. Wiping at my eyes, I let my gaze travel over the child cemetery, taking in the dolls and toys that lay at the foot of each cross, the flowers tied to the tops…and the piece of paper that was nailed to the grave of Rose Harris. Biting my lip, I took a shaky step forward and brushed my fingers across the paper, squatting to read the letters scrawled across it.

_**I'm sorry baby. Daddy tried. God forgive me, I tried. **_

The bottom was smeared with blood.

My throat grew tight as I read the parting words of Rose Harris' father and an overwhelming understanding filled me as I knelt at the grave of his daughter. I knew what it was like to watch the people you love slip right through your fingers only for them to come back and try to bite those same hands. I knew the agonizing pain, the horrible agony, the crippling guilt of _why am I alive but they're not. _I knew, everyday I lived with these feelings; every night I saw _their _faces; every second I felt their blood.

"_I know the feeling Mr. Harris. Believe me, I know," _I thought. Biting my lip, I decided I could spare a few moments, a few mere seconds, to pay homage to these lost lives before I continued on my way. It...was the human thing to do. So, right there, in the middle of the forest, on the graves of five young children, I bowed my head and prayed. I prayed for the lives of the Harris children, I prayed for their father, and I prayed that, wherever they may be, they had found peace. People, if there were any people left alive that is, would probably scorn me for my actions, for in my belief in a God that clearly could not exist. But, just because I did not find myself in his, or her, or their, favor, did not mean some higher power didn't exist. Audrey Bennett was just a name that was of little importance and I had accepted that. Also, after the things I have done, how can I ask a divine power to intervene on my behalf?

I lifted my head and gazed at the cross of Rose Harris. "I'm sorry," I muttered to no one. Sorry this happened to you; sorry you didn't have the chance to live; sorry that you lived to see such horrors. I was just so _sorry_.

A sudden sharp pain awoke in my mouth and the bitter metallic taste of blood coated my tongue. Damn it. I must have cut myself on the peach pit. Furrowing my brow, I brought my hand up and spat the stone into the palm of my hand. I gazed at that small seed and thought back to how I found its tree as I ran from East Point, at how a few of the peaches had still been edible. They were a godsend, those peaches, and nourishment to keep me going when I was running on empty. They had save me.

And maybe I could, somewhere done the line, save someone else.

Idea blooming in my head, I closed my fist around the pit and stood, walking around the graves of the Harris children. Two feet away from the backs of the crosses, I knelt once more and dug my fingers into the fertile soil. Quietly, I dug a small furrow in the earth, about six inches deep and three inches wide. Satisfied, I dropped the pit into the hole and swept the dirt back over it, the spot on different than when it had been before I disturbed it.

There. Now, in a year or two, a peach tree would stand here, nourished by the stream close by and…by the bodies of the Harris children. A small kernel of guilt unfurled in me but I quickly shook it off. Those kids had died long before I got here; it was not my fault. This way, though, their death, while still sad, would not be completely in vain. This way, they could, possibly, save the life of some woe-begotten traveler, in need of food and rest. I glanced back at the crosses. After all, ashes to ashes, dust to dust right?

A ray of sunshine broke through the canopy of leaves and alighted on the leaves as if to say "_Right."_

Smiling slightly, I stood and wiped at my eyes again, moving to grab my pack. As I walked towards it, I glanced at the stream below me, mind churning with thoughts. I needed to fill up on some water and then it was time to get moving I decided. It would be dark soon and I needed to make a little more headway if I was going to make it to Atlanta by tomorrow.

However, as I stooped to grab my pack, another thought occurred to me and I found myself once again kneeling behind the Harris' crosses. Canteen suddenly in hand, I upturned it above the place where I had planted the seed, watching the glistening current splatter the dirt and become absorbed. A sense of contentment filled me at the sight. "We all deserve a fighting chance," I whispered to the pit nestled in the dirt. "Especially now."

When I was done, I shuffled back to stand before the grave of Rose Harris. I don't know why, but I felt I had to say something so, awkwardly, I cleared my throat, bowed my head, and began to talk. "I don't know what happened to you or who you were…but I'm sorry your life ended like this," I said. "I just want you to know though that it wasn't all for nothing. You might not know it but your death is going to help someone sometime in the future. Your end will foster someone's new beginning. And…I know they'll be grateful. So thank you."

It was awkward and no one was around to hear it but…I felt better for saying it. Nodding to myself, I turned and was about to bend to grab my pack before I heard a high-pitched whistle and my right temple exploded in pain.

Yelping, I fell on my ass, hand flying up to touch the burning skin. My fingertips came away slick and red. "What the fuck," I gasped, still gaping and holding my head. Suddenly, I heard a sharp rustle and I snapped my head up in time to see the figure of a man slip out of the bushes on the other side of the stream.

"Sumbitch," the man cursed, swinging his black crossbow to lie across his shoulders, wide blue eyes regarding me in varying levels of shock and surprise. "You aint no walker."

* * *

><p><strong>1) Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost<strong>

**And there is chapter 2! :D sorry about the cliffie...actually i am not XD i thought it was a good way to bring my sexy man Daryl in ;) What do you think? I am dying to find out! So please review! :D And to all who reviewed chapter 1 THANK YOU SO MUCH! It really meant a lot to here you guys liked it :)**

**Thanks again and remember to review by pressing the small blue button below :D**

**~Shadows**


	3. Mother Don't Worry

**Chapter 3: Mother Don't Worry**

* * *

><p>Time stilled as I sat there, flat on my ass, staring in incomprehension at the man across the stream. The air lay frozen in my lungs, my heart stood motionless in my chest, the very turn of the world had stopped. I felt as if I was having an out of body experience, like I had somehow landed in the twilight zone because there was no way this could be real. Distantly, I felt myself blink and watched in a detached fascination as the man blinked back, eyelids falling and rising in slow motion. Blood oozed down my right temple, thick and slow as molasses and I had the distant thought that maybe I was hallucinating; maybe those peaches <strong>had<strong> been rotten and this was some kind of drug induced vision brought upon by my loneliness and desire for contact with another person that didn't end in me bashing skulls in. Or maybe…maybe this was all a dream and I was sleeping somewhere in a tree, just waiting to wake up.

Maybe none of this was real and I was back in my bed in Dalton, warm and safe and happy.

But then, like the shot of a gun at the beginning of a race, a bird cawed in the distance, shrill and loud and all too _**real, **_and time hit the ground running. My illusions and delusions of normalcy shattered as everything slammed into me at once and in the span of three seconds, I became aware of three things: one, the man on the other side of the stream was **not **a hallucination; two, this **dick **had just shot me in the _head _with an arrow, by the looks of his lethal crossbow; and three, I wasn't about to stick around and let him do it again. No food or water was worth the risk. This man was human, yes, the first I had seen in over a month in fact, but he was also a _man_ with a _crossbow_ and I am only a seventeen-year-old girl stuck in the middle of the woods…alone. Even before the end of the world, this is _not _the best situation to be caught in. Now, the only thing worse is if a horde of walkers just popped out of nowhere and decided to charge me.

But that was a whole matter entirely.

Back to my current predicament, I needed to get the fuck out of here and that means as of ten seconds ago. In that moment, that precious second that I resolved to get the hell outta Dodge, something, fear, terror, perhaps determination, must have shone in my visage because the man suddenly took a step forward, raising a hand as if to tell me to stop.

Yeah fuck you dude.

Scrambling up, running on pure instinct, I dove to the right, rolling behind the tree my pack rested against, and grappled for my sword that rested beside it. Panting I crouched there, heart racing in my chest and blood dripping into my eye, and suddenly I heard the man call out, loud and echoing. When I didn't respond, the sounds of numerous curses blending with the racket of crunching leaves, snapping twigs, and the of splashing water reached my ears and my eyes went wide as I realized he was crossing the stream.

"Shit!" I cast my eyes about looking for an escape, sliding my pack on as quickly as I could manage. What I saw wasn't promising. The trees of this part of the forest, while numerous, were widely spaced out, small clearings dotting the immediate area. Five minutes ago, I found the sight beautiful, picturesque almost. Now, I cursed the very freaking Earth because every spacious plot of dirt was just another opening for the son of a bitch to shoot me in the back. "_Speaking of my soon to be murderer," _I thought with a frown, hysteria making me feel a little lightheaded. "_Where the hell is he?" _The loud splashes of the stream had faded to its previous gurgle and the vulgar curses had fallen silent. Where had he go-?

Before I could even finish the thought, a twig snapped sharply to my left. _"Well, now I know where he is." _And it was **way **to close for my liking. Flinging my gaze to the right, I decided that I would vault over the Harris children's graves. There was a small clearing behind it but if I could clear that, the forest was denser in that direction. Taking a deep breath, I made to shove myself up and into a sprint, but before I could even move out of my crouch, a hand came out of nowhere and wrapped itself around my chin, just missing my mouth.

And in that instant, my mind went blank, the world faded away, and the only thing I was aware of was the feel of calloused skin against my face, the power of that grip, and feel of hot breath on the back of my neck. I reacted on instinct, not even consciously thinking as my muscles recalled the self-defense moves that had been drilled into me so long ago.

"_Do the unexpected. It will keep you alive longer." _

Sensei hadn't failed me yet.

So, taking a deep breath, and knowing that, whoever this fucker was, he was expecting me to fight, thrash and scream, if his quieting and restraining hands on my mouth and around my waist were any indication, I did the exact opposite, just as I had been taught.

One second I was stiff and rigid as a board, every cell in my body screaming at me to fight, and in the next I forced my body to go completely and totally limp.

It was as if all my strings had been cut; every single one of my muscles went lax and I slumped in the man's grip. "Fuck," I heard the bastard grunt, not expecting the brunt of dead weight to suddenly appear in his arms, as I slid closer into the circle of his arms. Perfect; part one accomplished. Now for part two. Gritting my teeth against the pain I knew was to come, I snapped my head back as hard as I could, waiting for the impact.

I wasn't disappointed.

The man's nose gave beneath my skull with a sickening crunch and I felt the familiar warmth of blood splatter against the nape of my neck. "Aw fuck," the man shouted, the words muffled and wet. Distracted by the pain, I could feel his grip loosen. I knew my last chance when I saw it and I wasn't about to let it pass me by. So, taking advantage of the man's lack of attention, I threw myself out of his arms, stumbling on the uneven dirt due to my momentum and the throbbing in my head. For a horrifying second, I thought I was going to go sprawling into the dirt, my center of balance thrust too far forward. However, at the last moment, I managed to right myself, fingers brushing the dirt as I stuttered into a sprint.

I didn't look back as a vaulted over the Harris' graves and burst into the clearing beyond. I didn't even look back when I heard the man scream after me. Feet pounding the ground, heart pounding in my chest, I ran as fast and hard as I could, my pack slamming into my shoulders with every step. I tried to ignore the discomfort, the burning of my lungs and muscles, the blood that was still streaming down my face but the funny thing is, no one ever mentioned that it was damn near impossible. When you're in pain, sprinting marathons are not the best remedy to rectify that. I bore it though, bore it and bore down as I ran faster and farther, bobbing and weaving through the trees as I, quite literally, ran for my life.

In the next moments, I was aware of nothing but the pound of my feet and the sting of branches as they whipped past my cheeks. Nothing else mattered, not my pain, not where I was heading, nothing. Right now, I needed to put as much distance between that man and me as I could; I'd worry about where I was later. With that mentality in mind, I kept running, kept moving, kept _surviving_. Just as I had always done and just as I always would.

Finally, when the burn of my lungs became unbearable, and my legs throbbed from the exertion of what I'm sure had to be a few miles worth of sprinting, I chanced a quick glance over my shoulder, keeping an eye out for trees in my peripherals.

Nothing met my gaze except the greens and browns of the forest. The man was nowhere to be seen.

Relief flooded through me as I realized I had out run my pursuer and a grin of joy split my face. I'd done it. Holy shit…I had actually out run him. _"And to think, I hadn't even made the track team back home."_ Throwing my head back, I laughed in elation, whooping in triumph as my feet transitioned from my full tilt sprint to an easy walk.

"I don't see…nothin funny…'bout this shit."

Heart jumping into my throat so fast I chocked on my gasp, I snapped my eyes open to see my pursuer standing not ten feet from me, sweaty and panting as he glared daggers of death at me. Ice flooded my veins as I screeched to a halt, chest heaving and eyes wide. "_Fuckfuckfuckfuck," _I thought as I took in his livid expression, magnified by the blood gushing from his nose, and the crossbow that lay in his hands, ready to execute me. "_Shit! I'm fucking screwed." _I should have known that me escaping easily was…well…too easy. At least for me. Easy and my life never found themselves in the same sentence after all.

But that didn't mean I was going to give up. Far fucking from it. I did not come this far just to be killed like a damsel in distress in the woods by some asshole. Biting my lip, I began to backpedal, mind trying to find another escape route; any other escape route. The man saw this and scowled at me, the blood on his face turning the already intimidating expression gruesome. "Hey! Don' ya go fuckin runnin off again. I'm not chasin yer ass down this time," he snarled in a thick Georgia drawl, his eyes pinning me where I stood.

"Wh…who said I wanted you to chase me asshole?"

I blinked in shock as the words left my mouth, challenging and a hell of a lot more calm and confident than I was really feeling. I hadn't meant to say that. No. No, I…I hadn't just said that. But, by the man's obviously stumped expression, I, in fact, _**had**_. Holy…crap. Now this guy was going to kill me for being a smart ass. Great. What the fuck had I been thinking? Swallowing hard, I stared in abject fear at the man before me, waiting for the moment the telltale whistle rang out, the precursor to the arrow that was soon to be sprouting from my chest. Any thoughts of running were now gone as I stared at the sharp arrows because…well he was going to kill me anyway; he might as well look me in the fucking eyes while he did it.

However, that moment never came. The man just stood there staring at me in silence, his gaze calculating and scrutinizing, as if he was trying to figure me out. It was more than unnerving and frankly, it scared the crap out of me. I mean if he was just going to kill me, could he at least be quick about it?

As the silence stretched on, and the man did nothing more that stare at me, I found myself finally getting a good look at him. Obviously, the thing that was at the forefront of my observation was the goddamn lethal crossbow that was just _sitting _there in his hand, cool and deadly as a fucking panther, but, with a little, ok maybe a **lot **of effort, I managed to look past the bow and see the man holding it. Ok, I still kept the bow in my peripherals but that's beside the point.

The first thing I noticed about the man was he's not very old; few years older than me, perhaps mid to late twenties. It was a bit hard to tell, what with the grime and blood smeared across the lower half off his face, but I made an educated guess. However, despite the gore, I could still see he was white; and I mean real country boy white, complete with dirtied jeans and a grungy, sleeveless shirt that looked to have been possibly white in another lifetime. His arms were muscled, though not overly so, and gleaming with sweat and his short hair was dirty blonde or perhaps a very light shade of brown.

It…it was his eyes, though, that captured my attention. Now, it wasn't that I had never seen blue eyes, I had all right, it's just…there was something _different _about his_. _They were the color of a wide-open Georgia summer sky, clear and fathomless. Like a reminder of simpler times, though, to be honest, my life had never been exactly _simple. _But, it was what lurked _behind _them that truly drew me in because underneath that crystal light blue lay something else; a darkness, like clouds building on a distant horizon, vague and flickering but still there nonetheless. They…reminded me of something but I couldn't quite put my finger on what. I could tell, however, that these eyes…they belonged to someone much older than the man that stood before me, to someone who had seen the horrors of the world and now had them imprinted on the backs of their eyelids, always waiting for them to close their eyes, perpetual and haunting. A realization hit me like a bolt of lightning and I gave a start as I realized what his eyes reminded me of.

It was _my _eyes; his eyes reminded me of my own. For I too had that look, that same haunted, hollowed gaze that, whether in green eyes or blue, seemed to perpetually ask _Why?_ Perhaps…this man and me had more in common than I originally thought. Perhaps he was just another survivor, trying to get a leg up in the world and keep on living.

Suddenly, the man shifted just slightly towards me and my hand flew to my katana out of reflex, yanking it out of its sheath with a sharp jerk. "_Then again, he could just be looking for trouble," _I thought realistically.

Seeing me draw my blade, the man quickly wrenched his crossbow up, leveling me in his sights. "Whoa! Hey calm the fuck down will ya? I'm not gonna hurt ya," he said, scowl back again.

I tried to repress my own sneer, though I wasn't very successful. "Coming from the man who has an arrow leveled at me, you'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," I snapped back. I tried to put as much venom in my voice as possible because maybe, if he thought I was a lot tougher than I actually was, he might think twice about fighting me.

Then again, I'm just winging this shit here.

The man screwed up his face and spat to the side, his spittle red with blood. "Ya drawed yer weapon first!" Shockingly, his voice was accusatory, as if this was _my _fault. Indignation spiraled through me at the thought.

"You fucking **shot **me, in the _**head,**_ not ten minutes ago," I screamed back, jerking my head to the side and jabbing my finger at the still bleeding gash. Top that ass wipe.

"I thought ya was a walker! And ya fuckin broke my nose for it," he quickly snarled in response, gesturing to his own blood and wound. I scowled, stumped. Damn it. He was fucking right. But I wasn't about to admit it.

It grew quiet again as we stared at each other, panting in anger and exertion, the dripping of our blood the only movement in the world. Finally, after a few more tense moments, the man deliberately lowered his bow, slinging it over his back and showing me his hands in a calming gesture. I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious, but slowly lowered my own sword to the side in return.

We stood there then, the two of us, sizing each other up across the small clearing we stood in. I saw the man's eyes drift towards my katana, his blue gaze traveling the length of the blade. The man pursed his lips as he looked at it. "Where'd the hell ya get that thing," he suddenly grunted, jerking his chin towards it. "Never seen no one with a goddamn sword."

I blinked at his first non-hostile (well kind of) words. My sword? That's the first thing he asks? Well ok.

"I could say the same about your crossbow," I countered, raising an eyebrow at him as I crossed my arms, defensive of my most prized possession. He grunted again but didn't offer a response. Cue another awkward and tense silence. I huffed out a breath and tucked a strand of behind my ear, wrinkling my nose at the familiar nervous habit. God this felt so fucking surreal. This…this talking and interacting crap. After weeks of silence, interrupted by the occasional curse and one-way conversation, being in the presence of another living person…was too confusing. I was out of practice.

When the man made no effort to continue the conversation, and the silence grew unbearable, I decided to ask my own questions. Clearing my throat, I rubbed at the back of my neck nervously. "Um…what…what are you doing out here anyway," I finally mustered up the courage to ask, making the man's gaze lock on my face. "Well, besides shooting unsuspecting people in the head." I tried to keep that last comment joking but it came out with an undercurrent of bitterness. Sue me. The man narrowed his eyes at me for a moment but he seemed to come to some sort of decision because he grabbed a length of rope that ran diagonal across his chest and swung it around.

"Huntin," he muttered. Pursing my lips in confusion, I looked down and a quiet gasp fled my lips.

Right there in front of me, resting on this guy's chest, were about half-a-dozen squirrels and other small animals hanging from this thick and frayed looking length of rope, all bloodied and all dead. It was a disturbing sight but at the same time it was also the most delicious thing I had seen in weeks. My stomach growled violently at the thought of real meat, of real _food. _Since I had left Dalton, all I had eaten was snack packs and the occasional edible plant I found on the road. Nothing that came even remotely _close _to filling my perpetually empty stomach. The peaches I had discovered today were the closest I had come to real food but even they couldn't compare to actually _meat. _God, just the thought of it made my head spin.

Trying not to drool on myself, I brought my eyes back to his face, hoping that my starvation wasn't showing in my gaze. "O…oh," I murmured. "Uh…it seems you were successful?" It came out as a question.

The man shrugged his shoulders, swinging the dead game behind him again. "Not really."

My brow furrowed at his words. "Not really? You've got a whole buffet of meat on that string," I exclaimed. A snort of derision exploded out of the man and he fixed me with a mocking expression, eyes big, blue, and biting.

"Six critters ain't gonna feed no one except maybe me," he grunted. Bewildered, I made to ask what he meant but then the full meaning of his words smacked into me a moment later, subtle as a ton of bricks, and suddenly, I could barely breathe. Excitement burning through my veins like a drug, I couldn't help but jerk a step forward, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

"You mean there are more? More people?"

I…I wasn't alone! There were actually other survivors on Earth! Well besides Mr. Crossbow and me. I gasped as another thought occurred to me, my heart sputtering in my chest. "Wait! Wait! You're…you're from Atlanta aren't you?"

I couldn't keep the blatant and unrestricted glee from bursting through every cell in my body. I'd done it! I couldn't believe it. After all my walking and fighting and running, after the horror of this past month, I'd, by extension, made it to the refugee camp! All bitterness towards the man before me melted in that one instant. He was bringing me to safety! Hot water, security, and _books, _here I come!

However, before I could say another word, the man frowned at me, troubled and confused. "Atlanta? What the hell ya talking bout? I ain't settin foot near that geek filled city," he exclaimed.

My previous happiness became diluted with confusion and I cocked my head at the man, smiling dimming slightly. "Geek? What…what's that?"

"Geeks," he drawled, looking at me as if I was dumb as a doornail. "Ya know…_geeks._ Walkers. Bunch of motherless fuckin piles a shit that try to take a goddamn bite outta ya when ya ain't lookin. Christ, ya stupid or something?"

Indignation rose in me again and I bared my teeth at the man, not appreciating being called stupid by some redneck hick. "I know what a walker is thank you! I've just never heard anyone call them geeks. And what do they have to do with Atlanta anyway," I snapped, twirling the hilt of my katana in hand in agitation. "I'm talking about the refugee center, not walkers. That's where you're from isn't it? Whom you're hunting for?"

Finally, understanding seemed to dawn on the man and I couldn't help but think it was about freaking time. "The…refugee center," he drawled, as if to make sure that is what I had said. I scowled at him, ready to snap at him again before his next words stopped the very air in my lungs.

"Fuck, there ain't no fuckin refugee center," the man grunted, hand rising to wipe some blood off of his lip. "The only thing in Atlanta is a bunch of walkers and a whole lot of dead people."

It was like the world suddenly turned into a supernova: the air burned, the planet imploded, and a huge gaping vacuum sucked in all sound and noise until all that was left was a soul crushing, deafening, defeating silence.

"_There ain't no fuckin refugee center."_

"_There ain't no fuckin refugee center."_

"_There ain't no fuckin refugee center."_

The words reverberated in my head like the knell of a funeral bell, loud, solemn and condemning. "W…what," I stuttered, staring at the man in disbelief, all previous happiness evaporated like mist before the dawn. "What did you say?" He…he couldn't have said that. There…there was no way.

I must have heard wrong. I **had **to have heard wrong. Because if I didn't…if I didn't…

But I hadn't heard him wrong because, mere seconds later, the man just sneered at me and, without remorse, without compassion, tore my world asunder. "I said there ain't nothin in Atlanta," he replied. "No camp, no survivors, nothin. Where the hell ya hear otherwise? Cuz that bastard was lyin to ya."

My mind went blank and my throat went dry. "I…the broadcasts," I whispered, mind tumbling over and over in my head like clothes in a dryer. "The broadcasts said…there'd be a camp in Atlanta. I…I walked…and I walked. I walked all the way from Dalton…they'd said it was safe." I lifted my green eyes to his, my gaze desperate and pleading, begging him to explain this to me because I was so completely and utterly _lost. _Something akin to pity awoke in the man's expression suddenly and he ran a hand through his hair, obviously not knowing what to say.

"Shit…where've ya been? Those broadcasts stopped long time ago," he muttered, not meeting my eyes. "Ain't no one left."

When the echo of his words faded into silence, I stood there staring at him, letting his words wash over me, letting them bury themselves underneath my skin and worm into every crevice in my mind. There…there was no refugee camp. No big, walled in, high security shelter that I had been dreaming about for over a month. There was so safe zone, no infection free zone. There would be no hot water, no nice bed, no _books. _There…there was nothing. There was no one.

I was alone and I had nowhere to go.

And all of the sudden, it was getting hard to breathe. The air was too thin, insubstantial. I couldn't catch my breath; my chest was heaving with the effort, spots were exploding before my eyes. The Earth fell out from beneath me and suddenly I was stumbling.

"H…hey," I heard the man shout but the sound was muffled, distant, as if it came from underwater. Gasping, I staggered backward, quickly colliding with a tree, the impact jarring in my bones. My hands shot out behind me, nails digging into the harsh bark to keep me grounded as the world spun round and round and round.

"It can't be possible," I heard myself murmur, my voice bordering on hysterical. "No. No it just can't be. There…has to be someone left. Everyone can't be dead. Sensei said…said to head to Atlanta. He said…I'd be safe there. So…there has to be something, someone, somewhere…there…has…to…there… can't be…"

Widely, I snapped my head up, looking for confirmation that this was just some horrible joke. But the man's expression didn't change and I knew, deep down, I knew that this man was telling the truth and all my suffering, all my trials and tribulations, had been for _nothing. _A pressure began to build inside of me, and it built and built until I couldn't contain it any longer and I blew apart at the seams.

"**GOD DAMN IT!"**

The scream exploded out of my unexpectedly, spiraling and rising in volume as it clawed its way out of my throat. Throwing my head back, I continued to yell, cursing at the sky, cursing at the universe, cursing at a God that couldn't possibly exist no matter what I had previously thought. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should shut up; every walker in a fifty-mile radius would hear me not to mention I was coming apart at the seams in front of a total stranger. But I couldn't stop, I just couldn't.

Because I had been _so close. _I had come so fucking close after so fucking long only to find out I hadn't been close to anything, just another dead end, full of walkers and blood and suffering. It just wasn't fair. What had I survived this long for? Why had I come all this way? There was nothing for me, no light at the end of the tunnel. What was the point? _**What was the fucking point?**_

Suddenly, I felt a hand clamp over my mouth, the calloused skin and powerful grip all to familiar. But I was too far-gone to "do the unexpected"; I was too angry, too scared…too lost. Summoning all the strength I had in my, I lashed out, shoving the bastard trying to quiet me back, my vision red and throbbing. As I felt his weight disappear, I reached blindly over my shoulder for my katana, wanting to maim something, anything, to get rid of this anger. I encountered an empty sheath. Heaving frantically, I looked around for that silver blade but before I could spot it, I was once again shoved against a tree, a hand pinning my wrists above me as the other one rested against my lips.

"Shhh," the man hissed at me, blue eyes boring a hole through my skull. "Ya want every walker in Georgia to hear ya?" I glared at him and struggled in his grasp. This time around, his grip was unbreakable. "Fuck! Calm down will ya," he growled as I continued to thrash. "Yer gonna end up hurting yerself!"

Twisting my head, I flung his fingers off my lips, baring my teeth at him in crazed anger and grief. "So what! There's nothing for me anyway! Atlanta's gone and every city from here to Dalton is over run! There's nothing left alright? Everyone's dead and my numbers up and coming! Who give's a hell if I die today, tomorrow, or a week from now," I said bitterly, tears sloshing in my eyes. I know I sounded crazy and manic and so many other things but…who fucking _**cared. **_

"So what? Yer just gonna give up? How pathetic. I thought ya wanted to live. Ya ran from me like ya did, fuckin sprintin through the woods like a god damn deer." His voice was disdainful and disgusted. I hated him for it.

"What the hell do you care? I don't even know you! You have no right to fucking judge me and you have no right to hold me here," I growled, bucking in his grasp. "So let me the fuck go."

The man just met me glare for glare, his breath harsh and angry. I watched as a plethora of emotions flashed through those blue eyes of his, each gone faster than the last. Finally, he seemed to settle on one: anger. "Look, I don' give a fuck if ya want to kill yerself alright. Ya ain't my problem. But if ya gonna do it, at least go into the goddamn city. I don' need no walkers wanderin close to camp cuz ya decided to lose yer damn mind nearby." Having said his mind, the man stepped away, giving me one last glace of disgust as he spat in the dirt, before turning and beginning to walk away. Heaving, but coming back to myself, I watched the man stalk across the clearing, not even glancing back, his catch and his crossbow swinging as he walked.

And just like that, it was over. Done with. The few minutes of my life that had ripped everything I had been holding on to into unrecognizable shreds…were finished. An indescribable sense of…emptiness filled me, if that made any sense. There was no more anger, no more sorrow. There was…nothing. Just like what was waiting for me in Atlanta. Just like…just like what was left back home. Nothing. Completely and utterly nothing. I blinked and watched the man, the man who had shot me and then dealt me a blow so much worse, just keep on walking, farther and farther away. And suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I should just let him go, walk straight out of the woods he came from and right out of my life, but…there was a chance…just a small chance…

"W…wait," I called out suddenly, my voice hoarse and weak. The man hesitated but didn't turn around. Gathering all the courage, all the strength I had left, I cleared my throat. "You…you said camp. But you…there's nothing in Atlanta. What…what were you talking about?" I know I sounded confused and lost and weak, like a stupid freaking child, but I didn't know what else to do. Everything I had been hanging onto since the world went to hell in a nicely made hand basket had just fallen through my fingers, shattered and fine as sand. This man…whoever the hell he was, could either make or break me right now.

I saw the man sigh at my words, his broad shoulders moving up then down, before he glanced back at me, eyes suddenly flat and indifferent. "There's a handful of dumb fucks few miles in. Got some supplies, few weapons, not much." Here he stopped and I saw him narrow his eyes for just a second, considering something. Then, he rubbed his mouth harshly, smearing blood into what I noticed was the scruffiness of a beard. "Look…if ya want, kid, I'll take ya. But ya can't be losin yer shit and screaming or fighting every couple'a minutes. I don' have time for that crap. Ya start up again and I'll leave ya in the middle of the fuckin forest and don' think I won'."

It wasn't a safe haven, it wasn't a promise for peace or security or comfort. Hell, the words weren't even fucking kind. But…it was something. It was something, a small hope, and since I had nothing except a looming prospect of black loneliness and an inevitable death…it looked pretty promising. Besides, after losing my head like I just did, I was lucky this man was offering at all.

Taking a deep breath, I nodded slowly, chagrined and embarrassed, but also nervous and scared and so many other things. The man exhaled sharply at my acceptance and jerked his head towards me before turning and continuing to walk into the trees. Afraid to lose him, and in shock that I had accepted, I wiped my eyes hastily, stooped to grab my sword where I had dropped it in the grass, and broke into a jog to catch up. When I drew abreast of him, he didn't even turn to acknowledge me, just kept on walking, almost silently, through the forest. It was then, as I walked with this complete stranger to some unknown location, that I realized…I didn't even know his name.

"My names Audrey," I suddenly said, darting a glance at him before turning my gaze forward again. "Audrey Bennett." The man grunted beside me and reached back for his crossbow, taking it into his hands smoothly and easily.

"Daryl Dixon," he grumbled. "Now be quiet. Yer gonna scare off the game." I bit my lip and did as he said, too tired to do anything else as I was mentally, emotionally, and physically drained since human was meant to go through these many emotions, and events, in one day, let alone a few minutes.

Still partially in shock of where I was and what I was doing, I chanced another look at the man beside me, watching as he scanned the forest for food, not even acknowledging my existence. Daryl Dixon huh? First he shoots me, chases me through the woods, ruins any illusion I had of peace and safety and now he's saving my life. "_And I thought my life couldn't get any stranger." _


	4. A Brave New World

**Chapter 4: A Brave New World**

* * *

><p>The quiet was <em>killing me <em>but I dared not break it. Not that I knew how mind you, as I said I'm out of practice with this interaction crap, but, even if I did, I wouldn't. _Daryl_ had made it quite clear early on me making noises was not to be tolerated. Breathing, apparently, was stretching it so talking was out of the question. Sorry for trying to make conversation.

Sighing for what felt like the umpteenth time today, I cast a furtive glance at the man silently picking his way through the trees in front of me. I still couldn't believe I was here, with him, like this. What the hell had happened? One minute, I'm minding my own business, just trying to reach Atlanta and the next, my world's flipped on its head and I'm dangling over this bottomless pit of despair, barely clinging to the edge of this guy's worn and torn hiking boots. It was mind blowing. And now, here I am, trudging along to God knows where with this guy I don't know, who had already almost killed me once, and who's rude as all get out. What the hell was I thinking? Mom would be so pissed if she could see me now.

…but, then again, if Mom was around I wouldn't be here in the first place. A tight knot built in chest at the thought but I quickly dispelled the sentiment with a shake of my head. I've already had one break down in front of this guy; I will not have another. So, back to what the hell was I thinking? I have always been wary of strangers and most, ok all, of the people I have been suspicious of in the past hadn't done nearly _half _of what this guy had done to me. And yet I'm following him like a lost freaking puppy. Or, a lamb being led to slaughter. Take your pick. "_But… it's not like I have many other options," _I reasoned, my mouth twisting bitterly. This man, sorry _Daryl, _and his group might be the only humans left in the whole state of Georgia. Ok, maybe that's a bit melodramatic but what were my chances of finding anyone else soon? And even if I did find someone, again, not very likely, it's still not guaranteed that they would take me in. What's more, I couldn't survive very much longer on my own. Sure I could handle some walkers but a hunter I was not and I couldn't live on small edible plants that I so happened to come by in the woods. So, rude and dickish he may be, but at least Daryl had offered me respite and the promise of food that wasn't found in a bag.

Even if it was squirrel.

"_**Kid!**_"

Starting at the irate hiss, drawn from my reverie, I swung around to see Daryl five feet behind me and to my left. He was scowling at me again. Big surprise. "Yes," I questioned, my voice at a normal level as I tilted my head in inquiry. That, again, was apparently not acceptable because Daryl's scowl only deepened and he quickly brought a finger up, jamming it against his lips in a shushing motion. My brow furrowed and I opened to ask my mouth what was wrong because I hadn't seen any walkers around and—

All of the sudden, I sharp rustle of leaves and feathers rustled above me and I tilted my head back in time to see two birds fly out of the tree, small brown bodies exploding out of the green, green leaves. Oh. Right.

Cursing, quite colorfully I might add, Daryl took aim with his crossbow and fired. The arrow flew, straight and true, from its origin with a twang and a blur of motion but, sadly, it missed the bird by several inches, flying into the woods and burying itself into an unseen tree with a muffled thud. The forest fell silent again as the birds flew out of earshot, spiraling through the air, chirping in what seemed a mocking fashion, and the only noise left was Daryl's angry panting behind me. I winced. Fuck me. I turned to apologize, I really hadn't realized what he was saying before, but the hunter just shot me an ugly and livid look before stalking past me and into the trees, presumably in search of his missing bolt. Biting my lip, I couldn't help but run a nervous hand through my short hair. Aren't we off to an awesome start?

When I had caught up with him again, Daryl ignored me, concentrating on restringing his bow, stepping on the end and yanking the string towards his chest with an angry jerk. Unsure of what to do, I hung back awkwardly, twirling my katana in hand, feeling both guilty and embarrassed. Again. After a few moments, Daryl stood, bolt in place, and I tried to send him a small apologetic smile but he just shot me another dirty look before turning and loping away, his grimy clothing and silent movements making him almost instantaneously blend with the trees. Huffing, I couldn't help but scowl at his back; it's not like I had done that on purpose! "_Be the bigger person," _my conscience told me. "_He's going to be feeding you after all." _Unable to argue with such logic, or my stomach for that matter, I reluctantly swallowed my pride and jogged to catch up. Still he didn't acknowledge me so I took the initiative. "Look, I'm sorry alright," I said quietly as I drew up beside him, making sure not to trip on a rock or tree root. "I…I didn't mean to ruin your catch." Daryl scoffed scornfully, not meeting my gaze as he kept his eye out for more food. "Doesn't make it better. How the hell ya even survive out here kid, blind as ya fuckin are?"

I frowned at him, irritation itching under my skin like a horde of ants. "First of all, my name's not kid. It's _Audrey._" A muttered "whatever" reached my ears but I ignored it. "And secondly, I'm not blind. I'm just more concerned with making sure I don't run into walkers than wondering if there's a damn bird in the tree above me." Daryl sneered, teeth bared and nostrils flared, but still didn't meet my eyes, stepping over a large rock with practiced eased. "Yeah well if ya wanna eat tonight, **kid, **how bout being more observant and fuckin _quiet?" _Not waiting for my response, he quickened his pace, making sure to put at least ten feet between us before slowing down again, head swinging right to left as he scanned the trees and ground for more 'critters.' Affronted, I came to a halt, staring at his back in anger and indignation as I stabbed my katana in its sheath, out of the way so I wouldn't "accidently" stab him. Ok, fuck what I said about being rude and dickish. This guy was a down right bastard! I've known him for barely and hour and yet he has got to be the most socially inept, blunt, cold hearted jerk I've ever met! And that's saying something because I have met some cold-hearted sons of bitches. Would a little compassion for the lost and starving girl be too much to ask?

"_Food. Think of the food," _I kept telling myself. Gritting my teeth, I tilted my head back and took a few deep, calming breaths. Finally, after some arguing with myself, and a long battle to repress the urge to throttle him, I decided Daryl _freaking _Dixon, what kind of hick name was that anyway, wasn't worth the energy of insulting. So, settling with a whispered "asshole" and a secretive middle finger, I tightened the straps of my pack and turned to follow my guide deeper into the woods, albeit a little more alert than I had before.

"_God, what the hell have I gotten myself into," _I thought as I trekked, blindly, into the Georgia wilderness.

* * *

><p>When the sun's edge began to brush the tips of the treetops Daryl decided it was time to call it quits and head back to camp. Or at least I think he did. He kind of just grunted and jerked his head at me and since I don't speak caveman I was left to infer some things. Still, I followed him. It's not like I had many other choices. Glancing down at my watch, again, I bit my lower lip as I watched the minute hand reach six o'clock sharp. Wherever this camp was, I hope it wasn't far. Sleeping in a tree, especially with <em>oh <em>so charming Daryl, wasn't something I was looking forward to.

Speaking of my forest guide, it, surprises of all surprises, turns out that he doesn't like talking _period_. The "it's gonna scare the critters" shit was just an excuse. Didn't see that one coming. But fine, whatever. He had a dozen squirrels, five hares, three birds and one raccoon. That last thing aside, he had a feast against his back and I'd been damned if I didn't get a bite just because I did something to piss him off.

We walked in silence some more, the suffocating blanket broken only by the occasional twitter of a bird and the perpetual hum of the cicadas. The scenery didn't change much either. Trees, trees, and more trees; it all looked the exact same. Sometimes there'd be a rock or log to break the monotony of our path but besides that, I was lost in a sea of greens and browns, in the smells of pine and dirt and sweat. Daryl didn't seem the least bit bothered, of course, or lost for that matter. He just continued walking, not hesitating, not looking at any map, just winding around trees and up and down hills as if there was a freaking yellow brick road leading him to this camp. His adeptness at direction equally annoyed and intrigued me. "_How the hell did he get so good at this," _I thought, watching as he picked his way across the forest floor like this was his fucking home. "_It's like he was freaking made for the apocalypse." _Ok well that was a conclusion influenced by our circumstance. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Dixon here had probably come out of his mother's womb hunting and his prowess at this was more likely than not a common trait in whatever backwater, hillbilly town he had been raised in. It impressed a "city" girl like me but I'm sure where he came from, it was nothing special.

"_Still," _I amended as I watched him skirt a large tree, the edge of a tattoo peeking out from underneath his sleeveless shirt. "_I can't help but wonder what his story is." _Like where had he lived before this? What had he done? How did he get here anyway? Did he have family? So many questions. I was curious, as anyone else would be in my situation, deep in the woods with a stranger who was "saving" my life. But, I also knew that it would be a _**cold **_day in hell when Daryl Dixon would pour his heart out, especially to me. I've known him less than a day but, call it intuition, Dixon doesn't seem the type to open up to his best friends; some "blind" and irritating girl he had found in the forest was not even in the running. Sighing, I took a swig of water from my canteen, deciding to drop this useless and unproductive train of thought and decide what the hell I was going to do once I got to this camp.

A trickle of sweat suddenly dripped into my eye and I squinted at the burn. "_And of course the world had to end at the start of summer," _I thought dryly, dragging my forearm across my eyes to clear them. "_Walkers alone weren't enough; the universe had to mix some scorching weather in there too."_

Tired, hungry, overheated, and deeply lost in thought, I didn't even register Daryl's hand on my elbow until it was jerking me backwards with enough force to dislocate my arm. Crying out, in shock and in pain, I stumbled back with the motion, nearly ending up on my ass again when the bastard decided to let me go. When the world stopped moving, I snapped my head up, my expression less than happy. "What the hell," I growled, glaring at the redneck as I cradled my arm. "Why'd you do that?" Feeling suspicious and wary, I shifted so I could grab my sword if things went to shit.

Daryl just scowled at me, blue eyes narrowed, and did his grunt-jerk-chin thing. "To save yer blind ass!"

I continued to glare at him but threw a little confusion into the mix. "I was paying attention this time though! You said you were done hunting and there are no walkers! What the hell else am I supposed to look out for? Bigfoot?" I mean really; this guy's arrogance and 'I don' give a fuck bout nothing and yer just a dumb ass kid' attitude was wearing me thin. All he had done was bark and snap at me since we met. It was more than a little taxing. Again, Daryl didn't even bother to respond, only turned to kneel in the dirt. Brow furrowed, still rubbing my arm, I squinted and moved closer to see what he was poking at.

A wicked looking, nearly invisible, homemade trap glinted up at me from the forest floor. It looked like one of those traps you see in the movies, the gaping jaw ones that spring close if you step in them and trap some innocent looking creature as bloodhounds bay in the background. Except this one looked a _**lot **_more painful because instead of small even teeth, this one had jagged pieces of glass or metal welded into the frame, for all intents and purposes resembling the lethal mouth of a hungry mako shark. "Wh…what the hell is that," I murmured, although I knew perfectly well what it was.

"An animal trap. What the hell it look like," Daryl growled back, standing back up. I stood up with him, disbelief flooding my veins as I jerked my head up to stare him in the eyes.

"But…but that thing is barbaric! I…is it yours? You can't tell me you actually catch animals with this thing!"

Daryl looked at me with a mixture of shock and annoyance, as if he couldn't believe this "kid" was going to lecture him on something he obviously knew how to do and do well. Well, he had another thing coming. "Ya its mine! I can't fuckin shoot everything we eat. We need the traps. Just be glad I saved yer ass from stepping in it."

I opened my mouth to argue but he just straightened the string of carcasses on his shoulder fixed me with a glare and muttered "camp's close" before he strode off again, without another word, leaving me to stare at the trap at my feet. I wrinkled my nose at the horrid thing and made to follow the bastard, I was hungry and tired and just wanted to get somewhere relatively safe so this day could end, but a sudden thought made me pause. Looking up to make sure Daryl wasn't watching me, I reached for the tanto at my hip and drew it quickly, kneeling in the same motion. I know I should leave it, it wasn't my place and it could lead to more potential food but…it was too cruel. When the short hilt was in my grasp, I jabbed my blade out without further thought, the bright steel striking at the heart of the godforsaken device.

It closed much quicker than I anticipated.

With the sound of creaking metal, the jaws of the trap sprung close, the glass and rusted teeth screeching against each other and my blade. I winced at the noise and was slowly extracting the tanto when I saw it. Blood and bits of fur and flesh clung to the serrated tips, brown and crimson and other unholy colors. Bile rose in my throat and I fought the urge to be sick. Now, I'm not a vegetarian, nor am I very squeamish. One can't survive this apocalypse being such. I've "killed" many walkers since the end of the world and I just spent the better part of the day watching Mr. Wilderness kill nearly thirty little animals. I was not squeamish but this, torturing animals in such a manner, just spoke of unnecessary cruelty and malice. I bit my lip and glanced in the direction Daryl had disappeared in. What kind of people had I gotten myself involved with?

"Hey hurry the fuck up," I heard Daryl call out from somewhere beyond my line of sight. "I ain't bein caught out here after dark."

"I'm coming!" Realizing it was too late to do anything about it now, I grit my teeth, shot one last look at the now closed trap, and ran to catch up with the hunter, bracing myself to face whatever the universe decided to throw at me next.

"So…how many people are at your camp?"

We had been walking for a few more minutes when I decided I needed some answers. Apparently, Daryl was none to happy with his new development because he just shot me another glare and tried to quicken his pace. "_Oh no you don't." _With some effort, I managed to keep even with him, gazing at him expectantly as I jogged by his side. He rolled his eyes at my stubbornness but finally answered me.

"Ain't _my_ camp," he grunted. "Me and Merle just found the dumbasses few weeks ago. I ain't in charge of nothing."

"_Except hunting," _I thought but I kept the comment to myself. "Who's Merle," I asked instead. This was the first survivor I'd learned of by name, well besides Daryl here. I was curious. Daryl pursed his lips as if he hadn't meant to mention that but finally he muttered "my brother." I felt my eyebrows lift in surprise. So, he had a brother. And he was alive. Well, I guess that shouldn't really surprise me. If Daryl was this good at surviving it's a given his brother should be too right? I kind of wanted to ask more about this brother Merle but Daryl cut me off before I could. "There's bout twenty-five others. Ain't got three brains between em though. Fuckin useless assholes," he growled. My automatic thought to his comments was "_that's rich coming from an ignorant, redneck, dickhead" _but I immediately felt guilty for thinking it. Even if this guy was an asshole, he was indirectly saving my life. I should be grateful, I _am _grateful. If I hadn't been shot by this guy, which still _fucking _hurt by the way_, _I would have continued on my merry way to Atlanta, walking straight into the arms of thousands upon thousands of walkers. I should, at the very least, tell Daryl thank you for circumventing me from that fate.

…but Christ, talk about something being easier said than done.

"_He barely likes me breathing next to him. Me talking obviously pisses him off. Blubbering to him my thanks for rescuing me will probably lead to an arrow between the eyes," _I thought dryly. So…maybe I just shouldn't say anything. Daryl doesn't look like the kind of guy that needs hot air blown up his ass. If I did thank him he'd probably just shrug it off with a grunt and a nasty comment or two. Then I'd be embarrassed and pissed off and say some shit and then I'd piss of Daryl and again, it would probably end with an arrow through my forehead. It was a lose-lose situation. I don't even know why I was debating this.

Except…I do. I'm debating this because…because I was raised better than that, at least in the last eight years. It was because my Mom and my sensei taught me to be respectful and gracious and kind and a whole bunch of other things that shouldn't matter anymore, not in this new fucked up world, but yet, somehow did. I was debating this because truthfully, it wasn't about Daryl and who he is and how he would feel; this was about who _I _am and how it makes _me _feel. And the Audrey Bennett that I used to be, that I hope was still alive somewhere under the cynical, scared, scarred, and bitter woman I was becoming, wouldn't let someone who saved her life go without a few words of thanks. I exhaled harshly and rubbed my forehead in defeat, being sure to not touch that still smarting gash on my temple. Why did I have to have such a bleeding freaking heart? Lord knows, after all the shit I've been through, I should be a hardened, uncaring bitch. Guess that's just another testament of God's cruel sense of humor.

"_All right Audrey, you can do this," _I encouraged myself. "_It's just five words. 'Thanks for saving my life.' Easy. Simple. And then you can move on with your life and not feel guilty over something so trite." _Slightly empowered, but still ready to hit the dirt if Daryl decided an arrow really was the best way to shut me up, I opened my mouth to talk.

"Hey Daryl…"

The man beside me froze in mid-step, body going rigid like a dog on point. I felt my brow furrow at the reaction and I slowed to a stop, casting my eyes about to see what was wrong. Were there walkers or was it simply another squirrel or something we could eat? Or was it just me opening my mouth again and—

A sudden rustle in the brush before us had my body freezing up as well. That sounded _**way**_ too big to be a freaking squirrel.

Feeling my heart kick start in my chest, I slowly reached around for the handle of my katana, flexing my fingers around the cool, leather shaft. In the back of my mind, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of disbelief. Daryl and I had been walking for hours and, even though I am directionally challenged, I knew enough from the aching in my calves and shins that most of it had been up hill. By my reckoning, which, again, isn't much, we were somewhere up in a mountain range, or at least some _really _tall hills, miles and miles away from Atlanta or any other city. If there were walkers all the way up here…

I grew cold at the thought.

As Daryl and I stood there, tense and taunt with weapons in hand, the rustling got louder and closer until a bush not fifteen feet from us shook and moved and…a man holding a rather large shotgun stepped out. At the sight of us, the man blinked in surprise before lowering his shotgun that I hadn't even realized was pointed directly at Daryl's head. "Shit Dixon. I nearly blew your fuckin head off," the man grumbled before his eyes finally landed on my. There was a moment where abject shock floated across his face before a slow smile pulled at his mouth and he swung the shotgun up to lie across his shoulders.

"Well I'll be. Now who's this," he asked. I felt a small, responding, shy twitch of my own lips and couldn't help but distantly think that this man had a nice smile.

Beside me, Daryl growled in annoyance and shouldered his own crossbow with an angry motion. "Some nobody I found in the woods. Ya want her Walsh? Take her. She never shuts the fuck up anyhow," he grunted. Registering the words, I whipped my head around to stare at the redneck in disbelief but he was glaring at the guy in front of us. A small feeling of hurt danced through my veins, quick and sharp, but it quickly became eclipsed by a tidal wave of anger. Who…who the hell did this son of a bitch think he is, just handing me off? Like he fucking _owns _me. Fuck him. And you know what? Fuck thanking him. He can kiss my mother fucking as—

"Hello?"

Snapping out of my self-indulgent fantasies of kicking the asshole named Daryl Dixon's where the sun don't shine, I turned back to see the new guy, Walsh, gazing at me in a mixture of confusion and concern. "You ok there miss," he asked before his eyes flickered over to Daryl, something dark and accusing in his gaze. I felt my own confusion at the look before I realized what Daryl and I must look like. Me, with blood streaming down my face from what I _knew _had to be a nasty looking gash and Daryl with his broken and twisted nose all covered in his own blood. We must look like we had a knock down, drag out brawl…which isn't that far from the truth.

"Uh…yeah. Yeah I'm fine," I mumbled before sheathing my sword in a smooth and practiced movement. "Nothing some food and rest won't fix."

Walsh, which I'm presuming is his last name, pursed his lips and pinned me with an inscrutable stare, dragging his gaze from my face to my sword, before his eyes left me to glower at Daryl again. "I see. Well I think we might just have some food and room to spare Miss…?

I couldn't help but remember what Daryl had said, "a nobody I found in the woods" and felt a sour taste in the back of my throat as I replied, "Audrey. Audrey Bennett." The man smiled again at my name, warm and welcoming, as he tipped the cap he was wearing at me in an exaggerated fashion from some old Western movie.

"Miss Audrey then. Welcome to Camp End of the World," he joked and took a step forward, extending his hand. "Name's Shane Walsh."

I wish I could say I smiled in return and took his hand without hesitation. I wish I could say I shoved Daryl away from me and skipped into camp with Shane at my arm, laughing and joking like some goddamn cheesy movie. But that would be a lie because that's exactly the _opposite_ of what I did.

The moment that Shane had stuck out his hand, a universal sign of greeting and desire for rapport, I took a step **back. **I…I fucking shrank away, drawing back until my shoulder brushed against Daryl's and I was practically glued to his side like some frightened damn puppy. I saw Shane give me a confused tilt of his head, Daryl reciprocating with his own glare of 'what the fuck? Get the fuck of me!' and I felt myself thinking the same thing.

Why…why had I done that? Bewilderment spiraled through me, dizzying and potent, as I cursed myself. What the hell was I doing? Here Shane is, rolling out the welcome wagon, all nice and charming, and I get closer to _**Daryl**_? Daryl Dixon? Mr. Crossbow-Wielding-Asshole himself? **Why?**

Biting my lip, I let my eyes wander over Shane, trying to find an answer, trying to figure out what the hell made me lose my mind. I couldn't find a damn thing. Shane was about 6 foot tall, fit and muscular. He had dark and wavy hair, from what I could see below his cap that I now saw said _Police_in big, bold letters, and a few days scruff on his lower jaw. He had a slightly crooked grin that was slowly fading as I continued to just stare at him and his eyes were dark and kind. Overall, he looked like a nice guy; hell he was even a police officer if the hat and shirt, which also bore the same insignia, were any indication.

And yet something in me still gave pause, like a little voice in the back of my head telling me something wasn't right.

I mentally shook my head at the notion. I'm just being overly suspicious, my past catching up to me. Or the sun must be getting to me. Heatstroke could explain this. I mean, Daryl freaking _shot _me and yet I trusted him enough to lead me here. Didn't Shane deserve at least a handshake?

"_Christ. Maybe that arrow gave me a concussion." _

Shaking myself one last time, I stepped away from Daryl, who, I could see, was all too pleased with the motion, and grasped Shane's still outstretched hand. "Nice to meet you Mr. Walsh. Uh…sorry about before. You'll forgive me for being a little wary," I chuckled slightly, giving him my best apologetic smile. Shane returned it and shook his head.

"Call me Shane," he said. "And no harm in being cautious. Hell, I wished more people around here had those instincts." I felt something in me stir at the word 'instincts' but I ignored it as Shane tilted his head back behind him. "But anyway, come on. I'll introduce you to everyone." Feeling both nervous and excited I nodded and moved to follow him through the thicket where, I realized, I could here the sound of voices and the laughter of children. "_Children. Wow. Maybe…maybe there is some hope after all," _I thought.

"_A hope you wouldn't have if Daryl hadn't brought you here," _my conscience suddenly reminded me and I mentally scowled. "_He doesn't deserve my thanks. He's an asshole. I hate him." _That last thought sounded childish, even to me, but oh well. People have hated for less.

"_Then why did you draw back towards him huh? As if you felt safe with him," _was the retort but I immediately repressed it, writing it off as heatstroke or fatigue or momentary insanity. "_I don't feel safe with him. He nearly killed me. He can go rot in hell," _I thought adamantly to myself.

And yet, as Shane held a few branches out of the way so I could duck underneath and into camp, I found myself glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see Daryl close behind me, scowl in place.

But the forest was empty and quiet, dark and deep. The hunter, and his catch, was nowhere to be seen.

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><p>The night was cool and tranquil, the stars were bright and the moon hung fat and full in the sky. Trees stretched on for miles in every direction, the only interruption being the gorge that dropped down before me into the rock quarry and the sparkling blue lake below. Everything was bathed in silver moonlight, pale and washed out, like an old black and white still life from another time, another place. Another life.<p>

It was beautiful though, so…breathtakingly stunning that all I could do was stare in awe, eyes wide and unblinking, at the expanse of untouched nature before me. Like this, under the blanched moon and diamond stars, it was almost like the past month hadn't happened; like the world hadn't ended; like the dead hadn't started walking and eating the living, infecting, devouring. It was like…it was like I was back on the roof of my own house, relaxing after a hard day of school and training, gazing up at the constellations I couldn't quite name and listening to Mom sing Manny and Irina to sleep.

But I knew it was a lie; I wasn't that delusional. I knew the moment the sun rose it would be back to surviving, back to baring teeth and claws and fighting for the right to live, back to chopping wood or washing clothes or other countless chores that needed to be done. But right here, right now, everything was peaceful and quiet. Everything, for just this _one _small moment, was perfect and normal.

"Bit cold out here huh?"

Well, as normal as sitting on the roof of an old RV in the middle of nowhere with a guy who I just met and his shotgun can be anyway.

Reluctantly tearing my eyes away from the sight before me, I turned to Shane with the ghost of a smile. "Not really," I said quietly, trying my best not to disturb the night. "I think it feels good after the heat of the day." Shane made a thoughtful face before nodding in agreement.

"Yeah…I guess your right." He trailed off into silence after that and I silently went back to staring into the distance, my chin on my knees and my eyes on the stars. I had wanted to be up here alone, to just think and reflect on all that had happened to me today because, shit, a lot had gone down but Shane had insisted on taking watch with me. I couldn't decide if it was because he didn't trust me to be watchful or he just didn't trust me to be alone in general.

"Um…Audrey?"

I started at my name and tilted my head slightly to look at the former police deputy. "Yes," I answered, wondering what it could be now.

Shane looked kind of…awkward in the moonlight, which is weird since, in the few hours I've known him, he's been nothing but commanding and charismatic. But now he's sitting a few feet from me on the roof of this beat up old RV, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at me as if he doesn't really know what to say. "You sure you don't want to get some sleep? You've had kind of a…a trying day," he says, and I don't miss how his eyes flicker to the makeshift bandage on my temple or the scratches on my cheeks. "I mean with the chores and all."

I pursed my lips harshly but then quickly forced a smile, hoping that it somehow reached my eyes. "I'm really ok. I just kind of want to…see the place you know? Like to make sure it's really…real," I finished lamely, not knowing how to fully convey my feelings. This interacting with other people again was going to take some time to get used to. Shane furrowed his brow but then just shrugged after a moment, muttering an "all right, if you say so" as he turned back to gaze into the forest.

Following his lead, I replaced my head on my knees, squeezing my arms tighter around my legs because, truth be told, it was a little chilly. But I can't focus on the scenery any longer, my mind is churning through too many ideas and memories of today to just rest and relax. A notion occurred to me and I frowned as I thought back to what Shane had just said. That last comment, about the chores, had been tacked on as an afterthought, haphazard and tactless. I wondered at why he had said it at all. We both knew he really didn't mean the chores, the folding of clothes that I had awkwardly jumped in and helped Carol with, or the moving of logs T-Dog had chopped. That comment, despite his attempts at covering it up, had blatantly been about Daryl and me. Nobody had wanted to say anything, they were all smiles and warm wishes as they met me; but around the campfire tonight, as people asked me more superficial questions, I could feel everyone's eyes on my temple, on the dried blood crusted atop my collar and splattered across my shirt. It was like a taboo, like no one was supposed to mention it. And yet, when Daryl had walked by tonight, a plate of roasted squirrel and beans in each hand and his eyes trained straight forward, everyone, as one freaking entity, had watched him go by with a glare that could cut through stone. Some had tried to hide it, some tried to make him notice but either way, the…animosity could not be mistaken. It was shocking at first to say the least. I thought everyone was going to be angry with me, I mean I did break his nose, which he seemed to have fixed sometime between leaving Shane and me and the campfire. But, as it turns out, no one really…liked Daryl. And that was putting it nicely. They all kind of seemed to move around him, trying not to acknowledge him and if they had to, with the minimal amount of words possible. I can't help but recall what Daryl had said this afternoon, about it not being _his _camp. I thought he had meant he just wasn't _in _charge of anything, like he had said. But…it was more than that. It was like he was part of the camp…and not at the same time. He shared the space, the food, and partook in some of the chores, mostly the hunting as I had seen but he had helped in other menial things, but that was it. He didn't talk to anyone else besides the occasional grunt of a question or bark of an answer; he didn't mingle with the other survivors. He just…existed, like he was in this little world the survivors had built he but not of it. It was puzzling; _he _was puzzling but it seems everyone just didn't care, nonchalantly apathetic or just callously ostracizing.

My frown deepened at the thought. No, that last bit didn't quite fit. Everyone I had met today, with a few exceptions, had been really extremely nice and genial. Like Dale with his cute but goofy hat and mothering hen tendencies. Or Carol with her sweet disposition and kind heart. Or Lori and her son Carl, who, even after all they had been through, could spare some friendly smiles and a few extra supplies. Or Glenn and his awkward yet endearing attempts at showing me around camp, at making me feel welcome. Or Jacqui and her warm hearted, caring concern. Or Amy who smiled so big at me, a girl who was _finally_ around her own age, you would think I was like the second coming of Christ. Or…hell just about anyone in this camp. They were welcoming, they were friendly; there were…just all around good people. I couldn't see them just scorning Daryl just because. There had to be a reason.

"_Yeah. Merle," _a tiny voice in the back of my head supplied and I shuddered at the mere mention of that man's name. Merle Dixon. Fuck, if there was ever a person to never turn your back on it was Merle Fucking Dixon. From the _moment _I met the bastard, lounging in front of his and Daryl's tent like he was king of the fucking mountain, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other, I wanted to scrub every inch of my skin raw and red just to get the feel of his leering eyes off of me.

It had happened not long after I had entered camp. Glenn had been showing me around, pointing out the road that led to the quarry, Dale's RV, and some other miscellaneous things, when all of the sudden a very loud and very clearly _drunk _voice had cut through the air, stopping me right in my tracks.

"Now isn't this a fuckin _de-light_," Merle had drawled out, smoke curling from his chapped lips as his glassy eyes crawled across my body, slow and disgusting. "Ya finally brought back some decent meat lil brother!"

Daryl, who had been sitting beside him, cleaning his arrows, hadn't said a word, hadn't even look up; he just continued wiping the shafts of his arrows clean, face stoic and cold. Glenn had shifted nervously beside me then, face twisted in discomfort as he muttered that we should just keep walking, that we shouldn't mess with Merle Dixon, especially when he was drunk. As I stood there, still staring, I remember thinking "_So this is Daryl's brother." _He certainly couldn't be more different than the hunter I had met in the woods. He looked a lot older, that was for sure, late thirties or maybe even early forties. His hair was closely shaved on the sides, but the top, untouched part, was a lot darker than own Daryl's sandy brown hair. He had deep wrinkles on his forehead and more crow's feet around his blue eyes than I could count but that wasn't what made him look, or seem, so different than his younger brother; it was the look in his eyes and the expression of his face that set them apart.

Now Daryl was an ass, I wasn't arguing that. He was rude and snappish and quick to anger and over all just didn't play well with others _because _he was an asshole. But _Merle…_there was something else there, something…dark. And it wasn't like the darkness I had seen in Daryl's eyes, the painful shadow of too many horrors seen and lived through, this darkness was…evil. Or something very close. There was a haughtiness and a disdainful arrogance to the older Dixon brother, like he hated the world and just didn't give a _fuck _if it cared or not; like the rules of life didn't apply to him and he would do whatever he pleased and whenever he damn well pleased it. His eyes were challenging, antagonizing, just _begging _for someone to say _anything _to him, just so he could tear them to shreds, with his hands, with his teeth. I'd met a few men like him before, though I was loathe to admit it, but there had always been something to keep them in line, be it a crowd or the presence of lawn enforcement. But, as I had watched Merle Dixon lick his lips and undress me with his eyes, I had realized, right then and there, that there was nothing to stop him from taking anything he wanted.

Namely me.

Oh sure, there were people around, witnesses that would normally act as deterrents, but Merle again, looked the type to not give a fuck if people are around and he was easily 6'4 and weighed way over 200 lbs of just pure muscle. Even Shane would have trouble subduing him and he was the most capable of the camp. The horrible truth was this was the end of the fucking world and men like Merle Dixon had finally come into their heyday. As the feeling of cold dread had settled like a stone in the pit of my stomach, I had jerked my eyes from the man and all but dragged Glenn away with me, trying not to appeared frightened but not succeeding very much since I was _definitely_ shaken. I hadn't been fast enough to escape Merle's parting words though.

"Ya can run sugar tits but ya can't hide. I'll be seein ya again real soon and no fuckin _chink _or nigger or faggot's gonna keep me from callin."

Glenn and I had all but sprinted back to the center of camp, close to the RV and, although we hadn't said it out loud, close to Shane and his trusty shotgun.

So, yeah I guess I can see why people would stay away from Daryl now. Though, to be fair, Daryl wasn't exactly like his brother. Yes, he had Merle's quick temper, and nasty tantrums, from what I'm told, and his less than P.C. tendencies but…I can't help but think I'm grateful that it was _Daryl _that had found me in the woods and not Merle because for all his nastiness, for all his caustic demeanor and even more acidic words…I wasn't _scared _of Daryl. Pursing my lips in thought, I felt myself glance over at the Dixon's tent that was on the very outskirts of camp, away from everyone else. At least…I wasn't scared of him yet.

"Want a word of advice?"

Blinking at Shane's sudden words, I turned back to look at him in question. "What," I asked, feeling I may have missed some part of a conversation. Shane cocked an eyebrow at me before jutting his chin out towards the Dixon's tents. "My advice to you is just steer clear of the Dixon brothers. They've only been around a few weeks but I've seen enough of them to tell you they're not good people." He snorted at that and shook his head. "Actually, they're fuckin scum if you pardon my French. But," he said, tilting his head at my temple and the bandage that lay there. "You don't really need me to tell you that do you?"

"Yeah," I chuckled, brushing my hand across the wound. "I uh, kind of got that." But, even as I hummed and nodded in agreement, that yeah they _were _scum and the dregs of society, I couldn't help but glance back at the Dixon tent and remember the pity in Daryl's fathomless blue eyes when he told me about the fate of Atlanta and the fact that he had brought me here, to safety, when all I had been was a crazy, stupid, blind girl that had broken his nose.

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><p><strong>Yay for my longest chapter yet :) What did you think about it? I want to know your questions, comments, or concerns :) So drop me a review, PLEASE, and tell me what you think.<strong>

**OH! P.S. : I'm thinking about writing some chapters in Daryl's Pov but i'm not sure about it :/ What do you guys think? Yes or no? Tell me your answers when you click the pretty button below. :}**

**Happy Holidays everyone! :D**

**~Shadows**


	5. Lie With a Smile and Good Intentions

**Happy New Year Everyone :D Here's chapter five! It's a bit shorter than the last one but my next chapter is going to be a lot longer :) However, in order for me to post the next chapter, i need a few reviews. :/ i didnt get any for Chapter 4 and I need to know if i even have readers out there. So, i'm kinda blackmailing here. But i dont think at least 3 reviews, which is my asking price, is too much to ask no? :)**

**Anyways, on with the show :) I hope you enjoy this chap and if you have any comments, questions, or concerns, please post them in a review :D**

**P.S. Also i'm still debating on whether or not to do some chaps in Daryl's POV :P Tell me what you think about this and I might give you some sneak peeks ;) haha now im using bribery. i know no bounds XD**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: Lie With a Smile and Good Intentions<strong>

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><p>Life, as they say, goes on. You don't want it to; you try to cling to the past and dig your heels in and believe that the world <em>can't <em>go on, not after all this pain and suffering, not after all you've lost, not after all you the parts of _you _that got torn to shreds and left behind but the truth is it does; it inevitably, irrevocably, undeniably keeps going. And so it is for me.

I'm acclimating into the group a lot easier than I had anticipated. Maybe it's due to the fact that I was still partially in shock over the recent turn of events; maybe it's because the majority of the people are just so nice; hell maybe it's because they all saw Daryl's black eye and bruised nose and decided that if I could take Mr. "Badass" on than I was quite alright. It could have been a combination of any of those things or none of them at all. I'm not sure nor do I want to question it. The only thing I know is that this morning, mere hours after I had arrived, I walked out of the tent I shared with a woman named Abby and was greeted with smiles and my very own plate of canned beans and some type of meat; I was treated like I had always been here, like I wasn't a random stranger who just came staggering out of the woods. I guess that silver lining crap has some merit after all.

I mean sure this isn't what I had been expecting: the camp isn't fortified, the log I'm sitting on isn't exactly a La-Z Boy and this tough, gamey meat I'm gnawing on isn't a five course meal but…I'm alive and safe. For the time being. That's got to count for something right? A knot suddenly forms in the back of my throat and I stab at a piece of meat, trying to ignore the plethora of traitorous thoughts that are cycling in the back of my head. I was alive and relatively safe. I was alive and safe. That's what I have to focus on. That's what I have to think about because if not…if I thought about the _other _things…

The knot tightens into a spiked ball of steel and I can't help the grimace as I swallow past it. I am alive and safe. I am alive and safe.

"Did you sleep alright sweetheart?"

For a moment, I carry on devouring my meal, trying my best not to appear like a ravenous animal as I let the conversation continue to wash over me, lost in my own little world of this fabulous mystery meat and slightly lukewarm beans. But when a heavy silence pervades and I lift my head to see what had happened, silently curious but still chewing a mouth full of my meal, more than a dozen pair of eyes stare back at me from their assorted chairs expectantly. I freeze mid-chew, staring back at them through the fringes of my hair. Oh. Had they been talking to me?

Swallowing quickly, I wipe at my mouth as gracefully as I can, which isn't very, and clear my throat. "W…well," I stutter quietly, not sure who had asked the question in the first place. "Th…thank you."

Jacqui, the kind African American woman who had helped clean my wounds up yesterday, smiles at me from her seat across our little campfire. I guess it had been her. "That's good. And your head? Is that ok too," she asks, concern shinning in her warm brown eyes. I nod and try to smile back in return, though the attempt was a little shaky.

"Fine. It…it really was just a graze." Jacqui's smile turned a little strained at that, and a few people shift uncomfortably, I guess my tussle with Daryl is still a bit taboo, but she nods and repeats her "That's good" statement. Silence follows our little exchange and when it seems like she has nothing else to say, I awkwardly turn back to my breakfast, feeling the tips of my ears burn from being the center of attention, even for such a short amount of time. Seems even the apocalypse didn't change some things.

"So where are you from," another voice suddenly pipes up and I lift my head again, fork frozen halfway to my mouth. Andrea nudges Amy roughly, glaring at her slightly in reproach.

"Amy! Let her eat," the older blonde hisses at her sister.

Amy grumbles but does her best to look a little chidden, tucking a strand of hair behind her head and glaring at the ground. "Sorry," she mumbles petulantly. "I was just a little curious. I mean she carries a freaking _sword. _And it's not like we all weren't talking about the same thing a few minutes ago." I see a few faces turn guilty at that and a few others turn back to their plates as if they were the most interesting things in the world. Well. It seems I was the current topic of the gossip mill. Joy. Lori, who is sitting next to Jacqui, gives me a slightly apologetic, slightly pitying look.

"You don't have to answer that," she tells me though, by the small note of hopefulness in her voice, I knew she wishes I would. I chew on my lip in nervousness but shake my head as I make a split second decision.

"It's fine," I reply, setting my plate on my knees. I am mostly finished with it anyway and I think establishing some rapport with these people that I am now living with was a little more important than stuffing my face. Even if this is the first real meal I've had in weeks. Damn, I have to stop thinking about that.

Taking a deep breath, I shift in my seat, feeling the bark dig into my ass and the sun sting the back of my neck. "Um…I don't really know where to start," I confess with a slight chuckle, my expression more than a little confused and lost. The people all give me encouraging smiles but its Amy who speaks up again.

"You could start with where you're from," she supplies helpfully, her blue eyes shinning in excitement. Andrea nudges her in the ribs again, hard, and tells her to be quite and let me talk. I laugh quietly again and run a hand through my short hair, feeling nervous and nauseous, like the fucking first day of school. Well, here goes nothing.

"Ok well I was born in Dalton, near the Georgia-Tennessee border. I…I lived there all my life. Until recently anyways." I say. "I'm seventeen years old, nearly eighteen." I try not to think if I will reach that birthday or not, though it was only a few weeks away. "And…my middle name is Lara. I uh…don't really know what else to say." Shrugging, I give another smile and awkwardly wait for my audience's response, for their acceptance. First fucking day of school indeed. I try not to fidget. Amy blinks her big blue eyes at me.

"That's it?" she asks dubiously.

I blink back at her, really fighting not to fidget now. "Yes?" I say it like a question. I mean what else can I say? I liked to read? Or at least I did before the end of the world. That I wore a size 8 shoe? Was a forced ambidextrous? What?

"I think she's uh…talking about your samurai get up," Glenn speaks up and I turn to see him nodding his cap covered head at the katana leaning on the log beside me.

"My katana?" I ask, brow slightly furrowed. My hand twitches to reach out and pull the steel closer to me.

"Uh yeah," Amy pipes up again, and I spin back to see her eyes wide and brimming with curiosity. "I mean is it a real sword?" I bite my lip again, unused to this line of questioning. No one had seen me with my weapons in my previous life after all. Well, except for…never mind.

"Yes its real," I answer truthfully. Why the hell would I carry a fake sword anyways? I don't voice that thought though because everyone seems more than mildly impressed with this new turn of events, especially the kids. Carl, Lori's son, is oscillating between staring at me and the katana, his eyes wide and oh so childishly blue in awe. Sophia, who is Carol's daughter, does a little better job at keeping the wonder from her expression but I can still see her peeping around her mom's shoulder beside me, curious and intrigued.

"Can you fight with it," Carl suddenly asks, his voice excited and animated. He reminds me a bit of Manny, the animation and innocence.

I smile softly at him, feeling something pull tight in my chest."Well enough."

Carl grins back, wide and infectious. "That's so cool."

Lori makes an un-amused sound beside her son and ruffles his hair, pointing a threatening finger at him. "I don't care how cool it is. You do not touch that thing Carl Grimes or so help me…" The boy pouts, looking at his mom with those big eyes.

"Aww Mom," he whines, and he sounds so much like Manny that I'm suddenly gripped with a violent urge to either cry or laugh. I chose the latter.

"Your mom is right Carl," I can't help but voice, making him look back at me with an expression akin to scandalized betrayal. The pulling in my chest gets tighter but I try to shake it off as I lift up my right hand and gesture to my palm. "It's not a toy. It packs quite a bit of a bite if I do say so myself. I learned that the hard way." As I tell him this, I trace a finger across the wide and ropy scar that cuts diagonally from right to left across my palm, wrapping around my wrist at the end. A few people gasp and make surprised noises at the sight but I'm watching Carl and seeing his eyes go wide and his face go pale.

"What…what happened?" he whispers, the horror in his voice and eyes evident as he gazes at the gruesome looking scar. A look that I can't help but notice his mother is mirroring, more than likely picturing the same scar on her son.

I wrinkle my nose a bit and gaze down at the puckered skin. "I didn't listen when someone told me a sword was not a toy," I say, feeling my eyes slip slightly out of focus as I remember the day I got this scar. How sensei had told me nearly the exact same words I just told Carl; how I, in all my infinite childish know-it-all wisdom, had basically told him to fuck off and grabbed the sword anyway; how the blade had cut through my hand like it was butter; how the blood was the reddest thing I had ever seen; how the pain was sharp and utterly paralyzing. "I was a…little stubborn as a kid to put it lightly. I thought I had it all figured out." The older people of our little circle smile a bit at this, knowing exactly what I was talking about, but I could still see a bit of the horror mingling in their eyes, in the set of their lips. I chew on the inside of my own; did I say too much? I was just trying to warn Carl. Maybe, in the future, I'll keep details like this to myself.

"That looks like it hurt," Shane says from his spot beside Lori, dark eyes switching from my scar to my face. I nod and drop my hand.

"It did. Had to get 12 stitches for it. I was lucky it didn't go a centimeter deeper or I would have lost the use of my hand. But, thankfully," I say, patting the sword at my side with a small smile. "I'm a bit more proficient with it now."

It's quiet for a moment, my audience processing my words, before Morales, a middle aged Mexican man that has a wife and two kids in camp, shifts in his seat and clears his throat. "So uh…can you show us how proficient?"

"Morales!"

"Oh my god!"

"Dude, I second that!"

I blink as everyone yells out at once, a discordant din of voices and shouts. Lori and Jacqui shoot Morales disapproving looks and some others try to do so as well but, for the most part, I can see a lot of people had been wanting to say the exact same thing. Morales laughs, eyes warm and amused as he holds his hands up in a helpless gesture. "What? Like Amy said, we are all thinking it!" The women shake their heads again but no one speaks up to argue the point.

Feeling awkward and on the spot, I rub at the back of my neck. "Um I don't know...uh…" How am I supposed to show them? Fight fucking empty air?

Sensing my discomfort and indecision, T-Dog, who had been silent this morning, suddenly points a stick at me, nodding at my hip. "Wait what's that little one there? A knife?" I glance down to where he's pointing, my eyes landing on the hilt of my tanto that rests against my left side.

"Oh this?" I ask and T-Dog nods. "Um…its not really a knife. Well, maybe a bit. But not really," I stutter. When I see the confused looks I'm getting, I decided maybe showing them was better. Grasping the short hilt, and making sure no one was in my drawing range, I pull the blade from its sheath, listening to the familiar rasp.

Wide eyes follow the glint on the steel, gazes tracing the keen edge. Carl looks positively transfixed. "It's called a tanto," I tell them, twirling the hilt in my grasp, maybe showing off just a bit. "It's the Japanese short sword. I guess it can be considered a knife or a dagger." Shrugging, I lay the blade flat in my hand, feeling its familiar weight and balance, dredging up so many memories. "I was taught to always treat it as a sword though, considering it's just as sharp and just as dangerous." I spare Carl another warning look to which he does his best to look sheepish.

"And who taught you all this ninja, samurai stuff?" Amy asks, her blue eyes curious and scrutinizing. "I mean you have to admit, it's a bit strange." I bristle at the comment, feeling defensive and irritated. Who was she to judge me?

"Stranger than the dead getting up and walking," I shoot back and the blonde blinks, cowed. The second the words are out of my mouth and off my tongue though, I wince at how uncouth they sounded, how harsh. "_Way to go Audrey," _I think to myself. "_Just piss these people off your first day here." _Remorse trickles through my veins and I take a deep breath, moving to sheathe the tanto. "Uh sorry," I mutter, though a small part of me really isn't.

Amy shakes her head, her expression openly apologetic. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I just…was, am, curious."

It's a reasonable explanation and, to be fair, her earlier insult wasn't really one. Being able to fight with a sword _is _strange. I had said the same thing myself, nearly eight years ago. Strange and stupid. Waste of freaking time. I think those were my exact words when I had first seen sensei's swords, mounted on the wall, like some weird sort of trophies. Even so, hearing those words out of someone else's mouth, here, now that sensei's not around to defend himself, to prove these people wrong…it makes my insides twist horribly and a sour taste to awaken in the back of my throat. I shake the feeling away and give a thin, ghost of a smile. "It's alright. It…it is a bit strange huh," I chuckle. "I actually thought the same thing myself the first day I saw a katana."

"And when was that?" Carl asks, though his tone is quiet and cautious, like he doesn't want to upset me like Amy.

The guilt I feel grows sharper. "When I was about your age," I say. "Or just a little bit older. One day I…"

But as I get ready to tell him the story of how I met Sensei Takeo, that fateful day eight years ago, something inside of me draws me up short, makes me pause mid sentence. Biting my lip, I let my eyes take in all the people around me, all their curious and eager expressions and I remember the horror on their faces at the sight of the small scar on my hand and the pity in their eyes when I stumbled into camp, bleeding and lost. I…I don't want that, the pity and the horror. I've seen that enough in my life and I hate it. I'm strong now, strong enough to take care of myself. I'm not some child that needs to be coddled or pampered; I don't need sweet words or empty apologies. But telling them the pathetic little sob story of poor orphan Audrey Bennett would more than likely elicit such a response. So…I can't tell them the truth. I…I just _can't. _Because if I do I know, I just _know, _that they'll treat me different. I won't be the cool chick that can wield a sword; I'll just be that pathetic little girl whose life has never been easy. I'd never escape that goddamn yawning pity in their eyes. They'd treat me like I'm some delicate little flower when I'm _not._ Not anymore, not since I was a kid. It wouldn't matter though; they'd treat me that way just the same. Just like my teachers did when they learned the truth about me; just like how the parents of friends would make sure to give me some leftovers to take home or a few extra treats while I was at their house, like I was some fucking charity case. I don't need that; I don't _**want **_that. I want to be treated fairly, judged by my present, by my talents and actions, not by the fact that everyone and their mother feel _sorry_ for me.

"Um Audrey," I hear Amy ask and in that one second, I make a decision. I don't want my past hanging over me any longer. It might be selfish, it might be wrong but hey, it's the end of the fucking world. Why can't I get a fresh fucking start?

So, drumming up all the courage I can, and I can't believe I'm doing this, I clear my throat, and begin to lie through my teeth. The smile I plaster on is strained and so brittle I feel it will shatter if I breathe but I'm resolved to do this. Who can it hurt?

"Sorry," I say. "Got lost in thought. But as I was saying, one day…uh I was at the store with my parents and we were coming home when my dad saw this karate dojo." What the hell? Where had that come from? I can't even begin to say but I roll with it, hoping to God this lie would be believable. "My parents had been wanting me to do something extracurricular for a while but I hated ballet and sports just really weren't my thing." The lies keep rolling off my tongue, smooth as fucking silk, and by the looks on everybody's faces, they're eating it up. I do my best to ignore the guilty feeling gnawing at me and keep pressing forward, smile still in place.

"So, my dad and mom talked about it and decided to sign me up for karate classes. When I got there, however, there were some swords hanging on the wall in the dojo and I thought they looked really cool." Lie. Lie. Oh so many lies. "I told my parents and they talked to the sensei there and it turns out that they also taught sword fighting there, along with the traditional self defense classes, for a price of course. But, my parents thought it would be a good investment, teach me some life lessons or some shit, so they signed me up the next day and I went to that dojo nearly every day for the next eight years," I finish, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and looking around at the group with a wide and innocent expression.

As fantasy lives go, I have to say this one is pretty fucking nice. Two loving parents who would pay extra money to let their daughter do what she wants; it sounds like a nice and normal life; it sounds happy and mundane. It also sounds _nothing at all _like my real life. Like, not even on the same fucking planet. They don't need to know that though. That past can stay dead, dead and burned to ashes in the empty wasteland that is Dalton.

Everyone is staring at me, still and silent. Anxiety blooms inside of me and I feel my smile start to falter. Do they know I'm lying? I look into Jacqui's eyes, into Lori's. I can't tell. Maybe I laid it on too thick. Maybe-

"Your parents were so fucking cool."

A breath I hadn't known I'd been holding whooshes out of me in a shaky exhalation. "_They bought it," _I think in disbelief as I turn to Amy who has her chin in her hands and a smile on her lips. "Really," I squeak, my eyes wide and my hands almost shaking. Amy gives me a look like I am insane as she sits up.

"Dude totally," she gushes, her face animated and ardent. "I mean, they actually _listened _to you _and _they let you take up sword fighting! My parents made me take ballet until I was in eighth grade! It sucked so bad!"

Before I can say anything in response, Glenn snorts to my left and shakes his head in something akin to disgust, even though he's grinning from nearly ear-to-ear. "You think that's bad? My parents made me join the math _and _science teams at my schools until I graduate _high school. _Talk about sucking. I still don't even know my poly-atomic ions _or _how to do derivatives."

I blink at Glenn, nice and slow. Once, twice. And suddenly, I'm laughing so hard it fucking _hurts_. The tanto, which had been sitting in my lap, slides to the ground with a muffled thump and I'm hunched over my legs, shaking uncontrollably, tears building in my eyes and lungs heaving. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear the rest of the group follow my lead, all of them cracking up like I hadn't heard since the world crashed and burned. It felt so surreal, laughing here, at the end of the world, with these people I don't even know. I can't even begin to fathom it.

"What," Glenn says, eyes wide and confused as he looks around at all of us in incomprehension. "What's so funny?" It only makes us laugh harder.

"Oh…oh my god Glenn," Amy gasps from where she's leaning against Andrea. "That…that had to be the…the nerdiest thing I've _ever _heard." Others make similar comments and Glenn just blushes crimson red, looking like he wants to pull his dusty cap over his face and melt into the ground. All I can do is laugh and try not to choke and fall off my log. It takes all of us a while to settle down, every time we would start someone would snort again and off we'd go, but eventually, our laughs devolve into quiet snickers and we can all breathe again.

"Yeah, yeah people laugh it up people," Glenn mutters, still blushing. "Can we get back to Audrey's ninja powers now? She's the new girl here."

I wrinkled my nose and opened my mouth to thank Glenn for pointing that out but someone else cuts me off.

"Ya lot of good she's gonna be," Merle's voice drawls out behind me, making me whip around, hand twitching towards my katana. The large redneck sneers at me from where he's standing a little more five feet away, rifle thrown over his shoulder and cigarette bobbing from his lips. "Just 'nother spoiled lil prissy bitch who can't survive without her pa's money and her ma's goodnight kiss. Fuckin worthless."

Merle's comment shatters the previous jovial air and, even though I'm facing away from them, I can feel everyone sitting behind me go rigid and angry. "Dixon," I hear Shane say, voice neutral and controlled, though I can sense an undercurrent of anger. "Where you off to?" The redneck's glassy blue eyes shift from my face to over my shoulder, the orbs going darker in rage.

"Nun ya goddamn business," he snarls, reaching up to take an aggressive drag from his cigarette. I hear people shift behind me, uncomfortable and slightly frightened, everyone waiting around with bated breath to see what would transpire. The air was charged with this pent up energy, like something was waiting to just explode. I guess there is a bit of tension between Shane and the man before me.

"_Maybe I should resolve it," _I think and I can't stop the next words out of my mouth. Eight years under sensei's calming tutelage and there still remains something of that ten year old little girl who fought against the world with bared teeth and sharp fucking claws, who didn't take shit from _anyone _or _anything_. I took Merle's threat yesterday because I was disoriented, discombobulated, and disconcerted but I wasn't about to let him walk all over me or think I'm some weak little bitch. That stopped right now.

"I wouldn't worry too much about him Shane," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. Merle's eyes zero back in on me and I match him sneer for sneer, even if my heart is racing in my chest like a hummingbird's. "I mean talk about fucking worthless. With the amount of food you guys have, I'd bet _Merle _here doesn't do anything more than shoot fucking air in the woods."

The words are petty and childish, reminiscent of kids exchanging words across a playground. Well, with a few more expletives added in anyway. But they get the job done because the _second _they are out of my mouth, it's like the world just froze in place; like the very turn of the Earth just halted in its fucking tracks. Merle stands there, staring at me with his cigarette halfway to his mouth again, his eyes narrowed and _livid, _as if he couldn't believe I had just fucking said that. But I had, if the echoes of shocked gasps behind me or the innocent bystanders that had frozen in their places behind Merle or the rage I can see unfurling in the burly redneck's expression are any indication. Good. Let him know that I'm not some bitch he can push around.

Merle sucks in a lungful of smoke and takes a threatening step forward; his blue eyes pinned on my face. "_What _the fuck ya just say to me," he growls, taking another step. I tilt my chin up and harden my expression, moving to stand and face him. I am not going to be afraid of this motherfucker. But before I can give Merle a piece of my mind, well another piece of it, I feel a hand fall onto my shoulder and, suddenly, Shane's voice sounds at my right ear.

"I think you should leave Merle," he says calmly but, by the tight grip on my shoulder, I can tell he's a bit on edge. But Merle doesn't move, at least not backward. Instead, he moves forward again, until he's nearly an arm's length away, towering over me.

"Nah! I want to know what she said," he yells, spit flying from his cracked and raw lips and, out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand twitch on the rifle's handle. Shane's grip grows tighter, nails digging into my skin and, for a moment, I feel a tad bit remorseful because I can feel this little argument is going to come to blows. However, before that can happen, an irritated shout rings out across camp, making us all jump in surprise.

"Merle! Hurry yer ugly ass up or I'm fuckin leavin ya!"

Startled, I, and everyone else, turn to see Daryl standing fifteen feet away, near the tree line, crossbow in hand and scowl in place. The hunter squints against the morning sun and makes an impatient gesture towards his brother again. "Merle! I know ya hear me ya sumbitch. Hurry the fuck up!" Merle snorts as he exhales a lungful of smoke but, unexpectedly, listens to Daryl, shooting us one last dirty look in our direction.

"This ain't fuckin over bitch," he snarls quietly, locking eyes with me and flicking his cigarette at my feet before he turns on heel and begins to strut towards his brother. "Watch yer mouth fuckin Darlene," I hear him yell. "Or I swear I'll…" Whatever else he says is lost as he reaches Daryl and lunges out to cuff him around the head. The younger Dixon ducks the swing and I can see him mutter something to Merle who just shakes his head and shoves past him into the tree line. Daryl shakes his head as well and moves to follow his brother into the forest but, just before he disappears into the trees, he casts a look back at the rest of us and I can't help but feel his eyes find mine for just an instant before he's gone.

The instant the Dixon brothers are gone everyone breathes again and Shane's hand slips from my shoulder, moving up to shakily run through his curly hair. I turn to the former cop with a slight frown. "You didn't have to do that," I say. Shane scoffs and opens his mouth to say something but Glenn is the first one to recover and, as I turn back around to face everyone, he locks eyes with me, his own brown orbs wide and disbelieving.

"What, in the name of fucking God, were you thinking?"

I blink at his squeaky voice, tilting my head as I bend down to pick up my tanto. "What," I say, fingers closing around the familiar hilt. Glenn sputters incoherently, his mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish.

"W…what do you mean what! You just…I don't even know what you did! You…you…"

"You started shit with Merle Dixon!", Amy finishes for him and I see that she shares Glenn's flabbergasted and terrified expression. "Why the hell would you do that? Do you have a death wish?"

My frown only deepens as I sheath the small blade, taking in everyone's pale and drawn faces. "No," I tell her. "I don't have a death wish but I don't think that I should have to take shit from some redneck asshole just cuz he waves a gun around and acts like he's some fucking bad ass."

"He _is _a badass," Glenn says.

"No, he's just a bully!"

"Alright, alright enough," Shane sighs and he runs his hand down his face in exasperation before he turns his gaze on me. "Look Audrey, I know you're new here and everything but we don't need any trouble in camp. Antagonizing Merle Dixon is as troublesome as you can get so, in the future, do you think you can just do what we all do and ignore him?" I huff and want to argue but I've already majorly overstepped my bounds today and we haven't even finished breakfast. I have to abide by their rules if I don't want to alienate myself and make this apocalypse more unbearable than it already is.

"Fine," I concede willingly. "But if I feel as if he means to harm me I'm not letting him just because you've asked." It's a bit harsh but I'm being honest. Shane nods his head. "That's fair but, truth be told, Dixon's more bark than bite. We've had some…altercations but he usually just runs his mouth."

"Good to know," I say but, something tells me that, sooner or later, I was going to experience one of these "altercations" first hand.

Discussion ended, Shane claps his hands together and turns back to the rest of the group. "Ok y'all. Party's over. Let's get this day started huh?" Turning back to me, Shane tilts his head in inquiry. "Audrey um…I'm not sure what you want to do today."

"Whatever that needs doing."

Shane smiles in gratitude and jerks his head towards Lori. "Alright well see if Lori or some of the other women need your help but if not, you can come with me to get some water from the quarry." I nod in acceptance and start to collect my things. As I bend over to grab my abandoned plate I hear a chuckle beside me and I look up to see T-Dog shaking his head, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"What's so funny?" I ask him, unable to stop my own grin from appearing.

T-Dog lifts his head, still shaking it as he laughs. "Girl, I don't know you but you have the _biggest_ balls I've ever seen."

My grin widens as I bend to pick up my katana, strapping it to my back. "Yeah? Well, I'll let you in on a secret," I whisper to him, leaning in conspiratorially. T-Dog leans in towards me, curiosity and amusement clear in his expression. "They're made of steel."

T-Dog snorts and pulls back but shoots me a wide and friendly smile. "You're alright girl. I think you'll fit in here just fine."

Amy suddenly comes up from behind me and links our arms together, her own smile bright and infectious. "Of course she will! I mean anyone who can stand up to that douche bag Dixon is like…family! Not to mention, she's going to be our own resident ninja. It gives us girls major cool points."

"Cool points?", I question and Amy immediately launches into an explanation of how the camp was somehow involved in a gender competition to see which sex was "cooler." It was childish, it was asinine…it made me feel more human than I had in over a month. So, as Amy dragged me towards Dale's RV, chattering away as we also snag Glenn to help us collect the camp's laundry for the trip down to the quarry, I can't help but smile the whole way like a complete and utter fool.

This place wasn't fortified as Fort Knox, nor was it as luxurious as the Ritz Hotel but, as I think about Carl's wide and worshiping eyes and Amy's smile, I think I can deal with that.

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><p><strong>SO? :) Tell me your thoughts :D Please!<strong>


	6. Making Friends and Other Sports

**Chapter 6 :) Hope you enjoy!**

**PS: I have two different versions of Chapter 7 started, one in Audrey's POV and one in Daryl's, and I'd like to know which one you guys would like :D If no one is keen on the Daryl POV then i'll just continue as I have been but if someone is partial to the idea, i'll try my best to change it up :) Tell me which in a review please :D**

**Now, on with the show!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 6: Making Friends and Other Sports<strong>

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><p>It's been two days since I arrived at camp and I've developed sort of a routine. It's not perfect, not complete, not sent in stone but it goes a little something like this. My internal clock wakes me up just around sunrise, usually bright and glaring in my face, and within five minutes, I'm out of the tent, teeth brushed, clothes on, and making my way to say good morning to whoever had been on the dawn watch. It's a good thing I never slept in late in my life before. But anyways, the first day the person on watch had been Jim, the second T-Dog and this morning it had been Shane, but, either way, I cast a smile and a greeting their way before going over to stoke the fire, making sure it is ready when Dale brings out some food for breakfast from his RV. Breakfast itself is a short but fun affair, all of us talking amiably and laughing, ignoring the fact that we are all a pack of strangers, here on the edges of the world. And when the food is gone, which doesn't take very long, I help wash the dishes in a small washbasin and take them back to the RV. From there my days vary slightly, but, either way, I find myself doing chores. I've helped with laundry and wood chopping, water retrieval, tent mending, which wasn't as easy as it sounded as we didn't really have a vast supply of needles and thread but we made due, and all sorts of other small things that keep this small little world we have running. It's a bit tedious, a bit ho-hum, but it's better than running for miles and sleeping in trees and constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure nothing comes and bites me in the ass. To be fair, I still do the last one but hey, it's the apocalypse. I'd be stupid not to. Especially with a man like Merle Dixon walking around camp but, as Shane advised, I do my best to not come within twenty feet of the prick. It's worked so far. I think I better knock on wood.<p>

When the chores are done and I find myself with some free time, I usually spend it with Glenn or Amy, talking about nothing and everything, just passing the time. Despite a little naivety and shallowness, I've learned that they are pretty cool people to be around. We are already becoming fast friends. Break time ends rather quickly, and then comes lunch, more chores, and dinner. After dinner, it's time for bed and after a round of goodnights and another turned down offer for me to take watch, I crawl into my shared tent and try to get at least a few hours of sleep before I wake up in the morning and do it all over again. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Though, to be fair, that isn't an exact model of my days, or at least the ones so far. Sometimes, I spend time with Carl or Sophia, much like I'm doing right now, sitting Indian style on the ground beneath a tree, a few feet from Dale's RV. They may be young but they're sweet kids and, I guess a part of me gravitates to them because…they remind me of Irina and Manny. If only just a little.

"Hey Audrey," Carl suddenly asks, looking up from some toys he has splayed in the grass. Sophia looks up too, her hands going still on her dolls.

"Hmm?" I answer, listening but still focused on the scrape of the whetting stone (1) against the edge of my katana, making sure to not make the edge too sharp or too dull. The boy is silent for a few beats too long so I look up from my work, stilling my hand as my green eyes find his shy blue ones. "Yes Carl?" I ask again. He fidgets in place for a moment, eyes cast down as he picks at the grass. Frowning, I set my katana and whetting stone beside me, being careful to keep the edge away from anyone.

"Do you think," Carl mutters after a moment, still not looking at me. I lean forward to hear his words better. "Do you think you could show me some moves with your sword?" I blink at the question, because it is a question I discover after I decipher what his rushed exhale had been, and cock my head at him.

"Carl," I begin, he knows what his mother said and knows what my answer must be, but he must sense my refusal from my tone of voice because he snaps his head up, eyes pleading.

"I don't mean I want to hold your sword…I mean I do but I know I can't. I just…I was just wondering if you could…like…" He trails off, face pinched in frustration at not being able to voice his thoughts.

"He means if you could show us some fighting moves. Like a demonstration," Sophia quietly supplies, her light eyes also shy as she looks at me and Carl nods his head vigorously in agreement.

"Yeah! What she said!"

I blink at the two of them, switching my gaze from Carl's imploring features to Sophia's timid but still questioning ones. A demonstration? I'm a little confused at the request and I quickly voice that. Carl scoots forward on his knees a bit, eyes alight with excitement and anticipation. "Yeah like…like how karate guys fight each other and show off all their cool moves!" The words are practically gushed and I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm as he continues. "Like roundhouse kicks and like when you flip guys over your shoulder! Could…could you show us something like that," he finished quietly, face wide open and begging.

A small laugh slips from my lips and I grin at Carl. That's a little different…and a lot more doable. "Well," I say, shifting so my elbow rests on my knee and my chin is cradled in my hand, my other hand twirling pieces of grass between my fingers. "I don't know how to do any roundhouse kicks but I know some self defense. But moves with a sword are a bit different. They're more for…attack than defense. Do you want to see just regular self defense or offensive moves with a sword?" I ask the question with a completely serious face but before I even say the final word I already know the answer.

"Sword!", Carl exclaims, nearly bouncing in the grass. Another smile splits my face but then a sudden thought occurs to me and it causes my expression to dim a little. Carl must notice because his face falls as well.

"What?" he asks, worry in his tone. "What's wrong?"

Exhaling harshly, I blow a few stray strands of hair from my eyes, pursing my lips as I gaze back at Carl. "Nothing's wrong per se," I tell him. "It's just…I think I should get your mother's consent before I do this." I turn to Sophia and nod at her. "Your mother too. I don't want either of them to be upset."

"Why would we be upset?" a sudden voice asks and I snap my head up, Carl and Sophia also whirling around, to see Lori and Carol standing a few feet away, baskets of laundry balanced on both of their hips.

"Oh! Hi Lori, Carol," I wave, smiling at them.

"Hi Audrey," Lori smiles back before looking at the three of us. "Now why would we be upset again?" Her eyes suddenly narrow at her son and Carl shrinks a bit into the grass. "Carl hasn't been giving you trouble has he?"

I wave my arms at them. "No! Oh no! He was just asking if I would give him and Sophia a demonstration with my sword," I tell her honestly, not wanting to beat around the bush. "But I told him I needed to get your and Carol's consent before I did."

Lori looks a little skeptical but Carl jumps right in before he can say anything. "Mom please," he begs, actually clasping his hands in front of him. "I won't touch Audrey's sword I swear! Sophia and I just want to see her fight with it. Please Mom? Please, please, please!"

Lori gazes at her son for a moment before she shakes her head with a laugh. "Ok, ok. I guess I see no problem with that. That is, as long as it's alright with Audrey."

"It's no trouble at all," I respond, waving a hand dismissively. "Kinda been wanting the practice actually." Lori smiles again, her eyes warm and appreciative.

"Thank you Audrey. But," she says sternly, turning to wag a finger at Carl, eyes narrowed. "Carl, you will listen to whatever Audrey tells you to do and I don't want to hear that you've been giving her any problems understand me?"

"Yes ma'am," Carl replies back, practically vibrating in his seat from excitement.

I chuckle at him before I look up at Carol. "Carol? Is it alright with you too?" Carol bites her lip and her blue eyes look from me, to her daughter, to Lori, and back again.

"So…Sophia won't be touching anything right," she asks quietly, concern painted blatant in her voice. "She'll be safe?" My heart suddenly constricts and I find it a little harder to breathe because…those were the exact words my mom had asked sensei my first day of training. Smiling, a little bit more brittle this time around, I shake my head at Carol.

"Yes ma'am. I won't let Sophia or Carl touch a thing. They'll be as safe as can be. I promise."

The woman considers this but then gives a tentative nod. "Alright then. Sophia can watch too." Carl whoops out loud and leans over to give Sophia a high five, which she gives him with a bright smile of her own. Lori ruffles her son's hair and Carol gives her daughter a smile and her own warning before the two women continue on their way.

Listening to Carl's ardent exclamations, and feeling some of his excitement rub off on me, I stand up, dust off my jeans, though it didn't do much since they're kind of made solely of dirt by now, and bend to pick up my katana and sheathe. Carl is instantly at my side, bouncing on the balls of his feet, smile so wide I feel his cheeks must ache something fierce. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Hold your horses good sir," I jokingly scold him as I try to pocket my whetting stone. The small, rough rectangle, however, slips from my fingers at the last moment and tumbles into the grass. Carl swoops down and hands it to me before I can even blink. Damn. Is this kid excited or what?

"So have you ever done something this before," he abruptly asks as I pluck the medium sized rectangle from his fingers.

"Done what? Swordfight?"

Carl wrinkles his nose at my sarcasm. "No, no. Like a fighting demonstration." A thoughtfulness enters his features and he suddenly shakes his head. "Wait. Never mind. That's a dumb question. You must have done them all the time at your dojo," he amends. My brow furrows and I open to ask him what dojo but then, like a douse of cold water, I remember what he is talking about. Oh right. The dojo. The fake dojo that I had lied about and said I spent eight years training at. That dojo. Shit. I need to keep track of my lies, even if there aren't very many. I can still hang myself in their webs if I'm not careful.

"O…oh yeah," I respond. "Yeah all the time."

Carl looks at me with worship in his eyes. "That is just so cool. But I bet you like demonstrations with partner's better right? To really fight someone instead of just going through moves right?"

At his words, I struggle to fight back the memories of sensei and his whip like reflexes that, for all intents and purposes, he should _not _have still retained at his old age. Still, I am truthful in this answer. "Yes," I say, eyes slipping slightly out of focus. "Yes I liked fighting with someone else better."

But that was then and this is now and I need to focus on what I'm doing at present. So, I shake my head and clap my hands, opening my mouth to ask Carl where we should do this little demo when the young boy suddenly interrupts me. "If someone agrees to fight with you, would you say yes," he asks, face craned up to look at me in honest inquiry.

My lips twist into a frown. "Carl, I'm not fighting yo—"

"Not me!", he exclaims, waving his hands in front of his face. "But…but what if someone like…like Shane said he'll do it. Would you say yes then?"

I consider this for a moment. Shane. Hmm…the man was certainly in shape enough to give me a descent fight. And, from what I've heard he was like the gun expert of whatever little town him, Lori, and Carl came from. That means he has to have good reflexes and even better instincts. Fighting with him would probably be a good match, something I hadn't had in a long while. And…it would be different. The only times I had ever used my sword were against sensei in practice and on walkers when I was on the run. I knew for a fact a fight with Shane wouldn't be anything like these two instances and it could help me with a little versatility in my fighting; it could help me learn something new. Yeah…a fight with Shane could be fun. Turning back to Carl, I smile at him and bend at the waist to look him straight in the eye.

"Tell you what Carl, if you go ask Shane and he agrees I'll fight him." Carl looks fit to burst with happiness but I hold a finger up to show him I'm not done. "_But _if I fight him, I'll only fight with a stick or bat or something of the like. I won't use my sword because I don't want to hurt him. Alright? Now, it's up to you and Sophia what you want to do but if I'm to fight Shane, that is my condition."

Carl frowns at me, looking a little disappointed and put out but he turns to discuss his options with Sophia all the same. After a few moments of whispers, he turns back to me with a determined look on his face. "Ok. We still want to ask Shane to fight you but then, later, will you still show us some moves with a sword?" I grin at Carl; the little weasel was bargaining with me. But damn with if I'm not a sucker for those baby blue eyes and that cute little face. Sticking my hand out, I nod my head in seriousness.

"You've got yourself a deal Mr. Grimes."

He nearly rips my arm off with the enthusiasm of his handshake. "Great! I'll go ask Shane now," he declares. "Come on Sophia!" And before I can even open my mouth to say anything, the boy has grabbed Carol's little girl and is tearing across camp. I swear, I think I saw fire come off his shoes.

Leaning back against the tree I had been previously sitting under, I laugh as I watch him run off, his and Sophia's small bodies weaving through camp like snakes through the grass, stopping quickly at their mother's side to more than likely animatedly ask where Shane was. I see Lori smile at her son's antics and point somewhere in the distance, a place hidden by tents and the bulk of Dale's RV, and suddenly, Carl and Sophia are off again, gone in the blink of an eye. I can't help but shake my head with another giggle. Shane doesn't stand a _chance. _

Standing here, staring after Carl, I suddenly feel a thrill of excitement begin to burn through me, slow and unfurling, like the steady progression of lava down the side of a volcano. My nerves tingle with the jolt and I feel the familiar _thump _of my heart as adrenaline begins to trickle out from brain. I want to grin at the nostalgic and exciting feeling but, unfortunately, a simultaneous streak of sadness rides along its coattails, subduing, because, although this is the first time in a long time that I get to really _fight _with my katana, to go through on the moves I had learned and just slip back into that in between state of action and reaction, into that place where my mind goes blank and all I am is a continuous flow of muscles and movements, it is also the first time that I'm fighting without sensei and _with_ the knowledge that…sensei will never be there to see me fight again; he will never again correct my stance, my posture, or teach me something new. It's a sobering and heart wrenching thought and I have to close my eyes for a moment to fight back the scratchiness in my throat. _"Deep breaths Audrey. Deep breaths," _I think to myself.

After a few moments, the moment passes, the burning at the back of my eyes fades to a distant ache and my lungs no longer feel as if they are collapsing in on themselves. I exhale harshly and rub at my face in fatigue. It's getting harder and harder to drive back these emotional breakdowns. I believe it might be due to the fact that I…I haven't allowed myself to really think about _that _night; haven't allowed myself to…to grieve. I should have, I still should but…but now is not the time. There is a time and place for everything and I have yet to find the time to mourn.

It is, however, time to get a move on because I'm pretty sure Carl is about to spontaneously combust somewhere around here. Sighing softly, I open my eyes and begin to step forward only to immediately have to snap my head to the left, blinking as the glare produced by one of the camp's park cars continues to throb against my retinas.

"Ow," I mutter to myself as I endeavor to try to blink the glaring red spots in my vision away. "That was smooth." Grumbling under my breath, I lift a hand to rub at my stinging eyes but my vision has cleared just enough and something I see brings me up short.

Twenty yards away, sitting alone on a ratty looking old camping chair, is Daryl Dixon, a half skinned squirrel lying limp in his hands, the poor thing splayed out like a damn throw rug. His movements are smooth and sure as he cleans the animal, even I can see that even from this distance, the product of years of practice causing not a stutter or falter to be seen as he removes inch after inch of fur and skin. My gaze absentmindedly flickers down and around him, taking in the small pile of other woodland creatures that sits at his feet and the merciful absence of Merle. God's small mercies indeed. As I continue to watch the man, a sudden frown pulls at my lips and I unconsciously turn to face him, shifting so my shoulder presses harshly against the rough bark of the tree. My mind begins to turn.

Today is my third day in camp, which both seemed too much and too little a time, and yet, ever since we ran into Shane the day we met, Daryl hasn't said one word to me, has barely even looked in my direction. Hell, his silence in the woods was done right talkative compared to him now. But, I mean it's not like I'm _hurt _by that or anything, I wasn't exactly banking on Mr. Dixon to become my new best friend. It's just that him keeping a football field's distance between us makes it a little hard for me to thank him.

Alright, I know I had said that he can fuck off and that he doesn't deserve my thanks, he really doesn't, shooting me in the head and then insulting me like he did but…damn it my bleeding heart is a force to be fucking reckoned with. Every time Glenn or Amy says something that makes me laugh, or when Carl smiles at me like I'm the coolest person he's ever seen, or when Jacqui goes out of her way to make me feel right at home, my stupid freaking heart twists into miles of guilty knots and my conscience, _without fail, _endeavors to speak up. "_You're happy right now," _it would remind me. "_Happy and safe unlike you had been, lost in the woods. And why are you happy and safe?" _I try to ignore the little voice in the back of my head at this point but it just becomes louder and louder until I'm nearly writhing in guilt._ "Because Daryl fought to bring you here. Because he chased you through the woods, when he could have easily let you run to your death, and offered you sanctuary. And you're not even going to thank him? What would sensei say? What would __**Mom?**__"_

That last part is what breaks me. Because I know what my mother would say and it makes me duck my head in shame. So, even though it _pains _me to do so, I decided yesterday morning that, in order to rid myself of this crippling guilt, I will go up to Daryl and thank him, point fucking blank. He might not want it, check that, I _know _he doesn't, just as much I don't want to _do _it, but I will say the words anyway. If only to get my conscience to leave me in peace. The problem, I have found, is getting close enough to the man to actually _say _the words. If he's not out in the woods hunting, then he's lounging near his tent with his brother Merle and if he's not there than he's fucking in Narnia or something because _no one _can find him. Granted, no one but me is trying but that's beside the point. My point _is _Daryl is as easy to find, and get alone, than a freaking chupacabra. There hasn't been an opportunity that I could approach him with my thanks since I walked into camp.

Except now.

I wrinkle my nose at the prospect, my good mood dampening slightly. Well, as the old adage goes, there's no time like the present right? I gaze at the silent hunter, his buck knife glinting wickedly, and swallow harshly. Right.

Besides, if I go right now, I'll have just enough time to blurt out the words before Carl comes calling and then I'll just turn tail and be on my merry way, embarrassment minimal and bleeding heart patched. Perfect plan if I do say so myself. Now I just have to drum up the balls to go over there.

…again this is easier said than done. But I can do this. I've survived the apocalypse. I can manage saying thank you to some redneck hick from the middle of nowhere…I think. Ugh. I just need to get this shit over with and stop thinking about it. Slightly empowered by my words and admittedly after a few deep, _deep, _breaths I find myself shoving off the tree behind me and, surprisingly, walking straight and smooth towards the Dixon tent. As I walk, I pass other member's of camp, some I know and some I don't. I smile and nod at them all the same, occasionally saying hello and they respond appropriately, kind and genial. However, when I begin to draw closer to the Dixon tent, confused looks replace the smiles and people begin to openly gape at me, knowing full well where I am going since the Dixon's "live" on the outskirts of camp, surrounded my nobody and nothing. I continue to smile and pretend I don't notice their expressions.

I travel the distance a lot quicker than I had originally intended and, within a matter of moments, I'm standing merely feet from him. As I come to a stop, Daryl stiffens and his hand stills, the gaping squirrel, with it's skin flayed back and it innards bared to the air, abandoned as he lifts his head to look at me. Those sky blue eyes of his are narrowed, glaring and hostile. I try to offer a smile but it quickly falls flat when his glare only intensifies and, without a word, he turns back to his task. I chew harshly on my lip, tasting a slight metallic tinge as my chapped lips crack under the abuse. Well, here goes nothing.

"Um hi," I awkwardly say, going for the polite route, my voice seemingly obnoxiously loud in the silence that seems to envelope this fringe part of camp. I kind of want to tell myself to shut the hell up. Daryl, for his part, doesn't even acknowledge me. He just goes on skinning, like I'm not even fucking here. A scowl twists my mouth and I know I look like I've tasted something sour. All right, fine. I'll go with plan B.

"Look, I just wanted to say thank you." I decided just to say it bluntly, quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. Daryl pauses for a moment and looks up at me, confusion laced through the hostility in his eyes. I decide to elaborate. "For bringing me here. I…I would have probably died out there if you hadn't so…thank you." My words are awkward and stumbling and I can feel my face heat up in embarrassment, the traitorous flush creeping up my neck like wild vines. Daryl continues to stare at me, his gaze and expression inscrutable. The silence is deafening, wide as the ocean and just as deep; I can almost hear the fucking worms crawling in the ground. My flush grows hotter.

Then, I watch as Daryl curls his lip and snorts, turning back to his kill. "Yeah, whatever." And he's back to ignoring me.

I balk at his words and the blush on my face grows brighter, fueled now by anger as well as mortification. The hell? Here I am trying to _thank _the bastard and he just dismisses me like I'm…no. You know what? Never mind. He isn't worth the fucking headache. I did what I came here to do; my conscience is clear. I was my hands of him. Casting one last glare at redneck dick, I make to turn around and go find Carl when a sudden, quiet curse halts me in my tracks. I furrow my brow and reluctantly glance back at Daryl only to see the man cradling his now bleeding hand, a rather large gash having been carved into the skin between the index finger and thumb on his left hand. A barely suppressed gasp rattles in my throat, there is a _lot _of blood just spewing from the wound, but the hunter doesn't appear the least bit phased by the injury, pissed maybe but not concerned. All he does is set down his knife, ok more like throws it down, reaches down beside his chair, yanks out a rather ragged looking rag that seems to have seen better days and ties it around his still bleeding hand, cinching the knot tight with a sharp tug of his teeth. Then, like nothing had even happened, he picks up his squirrel again and proceeds to finish cleaning it.

I'll admit that little scene makes me pause in my departure, makes the anger boiling in my veins to slowly peter out. Christ…the man practically just cut off his hand and he didn't even _flinch, _he barely made a fucking noise. Sure, I know he's the badass mother fucking red neck that can eat a hammer and crap out nails but…damn. I can't help but recall when Morales' little girl fell yesterday while rough housing with her brother and cut up her knee on some rocks. Her wails nearly echoed off the hills and everyone else had ran around for a few minutes like chickens with their heads cut off, fluttering over here and over there, not knowing what to do until Dale produced a half empty first aid kit and the chaos settled down a notch. To be honest, the little girl had made a lot of drama over nothing, the cut had barely broken the skin, but, either way, everyone was doting and caring as the girl sniffled, asking if she needed anything, basically coddling her. The thought makes me purse my lips and I glance over my shoulder, seeing everyone mill about, talking, laughing, some even gathering around Shane to probably convince him to fight me; I then turn back to Daryl, watching the sure movements of his hands, eyes drawn to the red stained rag on his left. Once again, unbidden, the cogs in my head begin to revolve.

The hunter has been over here for god knows how long, skinning the food that he had to catch in the first place and nobody has even spared him a second glance. Granted, they probably just want to keep their faces in the same order but even still. The man basically singlehandedly feeds our little rag-tag group, keeps us alive and going, and yet…he sits here, on the edge, like a wild dog that sticks around for the scraps he is thrown. My previous analogy, from my first night with Shane on top of the RV, of Daryl being _in_ this little group but not _of _it comes to mind. It seems I was more accurate than I had thought.

Although, I don't really blame anyone for kind of ostracizing Daryl, after all he is quite the fucking asshole. I should know. But to be honest…he isn't as bad as Merle. I shudder at the thought of having _two _Merle Dixons in the world; the one we have is already one too many. Daryl, though, he's more…more…well I don't really know what he is but he's not his brother. For one, he brings back food for everyone and he also helps around camp occasionally; he generally keeps to himself as well, not starting fights unless Merle is involved. Like yesterday when the brothers had returned, Merle _surprisingly _with nothing, and Dale, sweet old Dale, had made some comment or another and nearly ended up with a chest full of pellets from Merle and an arrow through the skull, again surprisingly, upon _Merle's _insistence. But that's another matter entirely; back to Daryl. The man is a dick and as rough around the edges as a goddamn porcupine but he's like…socially awkward! That's what he is, socially awkward, unlike his bad apple of a brother. He's like a feral dog that wants to be petted but reflexively snaps at anyone and anything that gets to close. And I guess it's because of this that something in me, something incredibly stupid, something of that little girl in me who didn't trust anyone and lashed out at everyone, kinda…actually…might want to…maybe…not _befriend _but at least make peace with the man.

I blink and nearly choke in shock as the thought registers in my mind. Whoa, whoa, whoa, back the hell up! What the _**hell **_am I thinking? I have to be going insane because I did **not **just consider _sorta-kinda-maybe_ befriending Daryl Dixon. I was done with the man; I had said my thanks and my conscience is clear. I've washed my hands of him! Repeating that thought in my mind, I try to glare as balefully as I can at the oblivious tracker but, once again, my traitorous bleeding heart makes an appearance and the glare melts into a scowl. Not a pout. It's a scowl. God I must be losing my fucking mind…

"Do you need any help with that?"

Daryl freezes mid slice and his head snaps up to look at me, eyes wide with incredibility. It seems my offer has caught him off guard. "Whatcha say," he grunts, his tone more bewildered than hostile. Wow, I must have really caught him off guard. Feeling uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze, I shift my weight from foot to foot, my eyes skittering to the side, blush burning all the hotter. What have I gotten myself into?

"I said do you need any help with that? Like with the skinning?"

When a heavy moment of silence ticks by, my gaze flickers back to Daryl for a moment; his expression is dubious at best. "Ya know how to clean and skin," he asks, jutting his chin out towards the flayed squirrel. Oh crap. I bite my lip and tuck a strand of hair behind my hair, ignoring the fact that the wayward strands immediately fell back to brush along my jaw line.

"Well…no. But I'm a quick learn. If you show me once or twice I'm pretty sure I can pick it up," I tell him honestly. I hope at least.

Confusion suddenly bleeds into suspicion and Daryl narrows his eyes, regarding me with thick distrust and skepticism as he turns to face me more fully. "Why?"

My brow furrows in confusion. "Why what?"

"Why the hell ya wanna help," he snaps out, anger leaking back into his voice and visage. I frown at the man and think about coming up with some smart ass remark but that annoying voice in the back of my head that had told me to offer my help in the first place urges me to tell the truth. And damn if I don't do it.

"Cuz you look like you could use a few extra hands," I say truthfully, motioning to the pile of critters at his feet. "Besides, you catch the things. The least someone could do is help clean them." I watch as a muscle jumps in Daryl's jaw, a noticeable jump. He continues to stare at me, directly at my face and I realize he's trying to decided if I'm telling the truth or not. I square my shoulders as best as I can and meet him eye-to-eye, willing him to see I'm being honest. I really just want to help. Though God knows why.

A few seconds tick by, the two of us involved in some kind of unspoken staring contest, and then Daryl's face loses some of its hostility, going from pissed and ready to fight to just slightly irritated. He opens his mouth to say something, _did I really convince him_, but before he can, a voice rings out loud and clear behind me.

"Audrey! Audrey!"

Tearing my eyes from Daryl, I turn my head to see Carl waving at me from near the RV, nearly jumping up and down in his excitement, goofy smiled plastered across his face. "Shane says he'll do it! Audrey, Shane says he'll do it," he calls out, still waving animatedly. The man he speaks of is standing next to him but his eyes are locked on me and, even from this distance, I can tell he looked confused and wary, more than likely asking himself why the hell I was over here talking to a Dixon and debating whether of not he should come over here and check in on me. I smile as wide as I can, hoping both Carl and Shane will see it, and wave back.

"Alright Carl! I'll be there in a minute!" The boy nods to show he's heard me and then turns to tug at Shane's side, mouth running a mile a minute. Shane keeps his dark eyes locked on mine for a moment, questioning and concerned, before he ducks his head and answers whatever Carl had asked.

I sigh and turn back to Daryl, mouth open to apologize for the interruption, but the words die in my throat at the man's closed off and, once again, cold expression. "Yer boyfriend's callin. I guess time for slummin's over. Don' wanna keep his highness waitin so why don' ya just run along," he sneers. The words are biting and dismissive and I wonder at what had changed in the last ten seconds. I frown at the hunter and cock my head.

"There's no need to be a dickhead Daryl. My offer still stands, I'll still help you; I just need a few minutes cuz I promised Carl to show him sword moves." A sudden idea comes to me and I flash Daryl a small smile, tentative and testing. "You know, why don't you come watch too? I'm fighting Shane. Might even break his nose," I joke, my eyes flickering up to Daryl's still bruised face. The man scoffs but doesn't say anything for a moment, actually considering, his eyes sliding from me to the group of people gathering about the RV. He seems more than a little uncertain.

"Relax a bit Dixon," I coax. "Come watch me kick Shane's ass and I'll come back with you to make some mean squirrel stew."

I don't know where the words, or these offers, are coming from but I do my best to not question them and just roll with it. It seems to be working out so far because Daryl is looking a bit more certain and he even moves to set his knife down on the rickety table he had been using. My smile transforms into a full-blown grin, I don't even know why, but before Daryl's hand can set down the knife completely, another hand, bigger and more scarred, suddenly falls on his shoulder, the loud clapping noise startling the both of us. Daryl's head snaps to the side and I quickly follow suit only to come face to face with Merle.

"What do we got here lil brother? This bitch givin ya trouble," he drawls, blue eyes piercing, though nothing like Daryl's, as he glares at me. I glower right back, smile withered and dead, feeling the familiar tendril of anger curl up my spine at the sight of the burly redneck. Fucking asshole. Where the hell had he even come from? Apparently, Daryl is just as surprised because his response is stuttered.

"M…Merle. Wh…where the fuck ya been," he finally stammers out, trying to mask his shock with a thick scowl.

Merle's eyes don't leave me as he replies. "Went to go check my traps. Empty though." At his words, my mind automatically jumps back to the trap I had nearly stepped in my first day at camp, the trap Daryl had saved me from, and suddenly I realize that Daryl had lied that day. That trap hadn't been his.

Feeling disgust well in my stomach, and wanting to be away from here, I tear my gaze from Merle and turn back to his brother, my brow raised in question. "So," I ask Daryl, stuffing my thumbs in the pockets of my jeans. It's a loaded question, two inquiries in one. I'm not only asking about coming to watch the fight but also about my offer to help him skin the animals. He knows this; I can see it in his eyes. But…I also see something else and I try to brace myself for what I know is going to happen next. It doesn't make the words any less caustic though.

"So fuckin what," Daryl suddenly sneers, looking too much like Merle for comfort. "I ain't got shit to say to ya." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Merle smile, slow and gleeful, and my teeth grind together harshly, a trickle of hurt and disappointment dancing through my veins before I stamp it out, violent and quick. Fine. I tried to be nice, I tried to make peace, but if Daryl wants to be a giant fuck head like his douche bag of a brother, than he can go right ahead. It's no skin off my back. Besides, two can play this game.

"Yeah I can see that," I jeer right back, my own lip curling, any previous notions of camaraderie fading from my mind, slipping like sand through an hourglass. "That's probably because between the two of you redneck fucks, you couldn't string a coherent, intelligent, sentence together to save your life. Too much inbreeding I guess."

And with that, I spin on heel, spine rigid as I make my way back to Carl and Shane who are watching me walk towards them, the former with a smile, the latter with a frown. I summon up enough strength to grin at the both of them and begin to apologize for making them wait but, even as I smile and talk, I can't quite get the image of the quicksilver flash of hurt I think I saw in Daryl's eyes as I had turned away.

* * *

><p>It's just about noon when the majority of camp gathers around a small clearing of dirt just a few feet from the back of the Winnebago. The sun hovers directly overhead, bright and hot as hell, baking us meager humans below on Earth into nice and toasty crisps. I.e., I'm sweating like a fucking racehorse at the moment and Shane and I haven't even started our spar. Lovely.<p>

I pull absentmindedly at the hem of my nearly drenched black v-neck. Why I am wearing this horrid color I have no idea. I must have been half asleep this morning when I yanked it on because it was _not _an intelligent decision.

"Hey Audrey!"

Pulled from my musings, I turn to see Shane standing a few feet from me, flanked by a semi-circle of on lookers, a long and thick branch in his hand. "Ready?" he asks with a smile. I nod and push myself off the siding of the RV but as I approach I notice something that makes me frown.

"Where's my stick?" The one in Shane's grasp is about two to two and a half feet long, nearly two inches in diameter and branch free. But there is only one.

Shane grins lopsidedly at me, his dark eyes shinning with amusement. "Nah, you don't need one. Just grab your sword." His grin is a more than a little condescending and it makes my frown deepen, taking on the hint of a scowl.

"Shane, I don't want to hurt you," I tell him. Cutting him, or cutting something _off _of him, would not be a very good way to earn a place within this little camp. The former cop's grin just widens into a smirk and he tilts his head at me.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that. So just grab your sword and I promise to go easy on ya," he says and now I have no doubt that he's being condescending. I bristle in aggravation but hold my tongue, narrowing my eyes at the man. He thinks I'm just some weak little girl, that while I know enough to survive I can't know enough to beat him. Well, if he isn't in for one fucking big surprise.

"Fine," I say against my better judgment and turn back to grab my katana where I had left it against the side of the RV. I pretend not to hear Carl's whoop of joy or the echo of a high five he must be sharing with either Shane or some of the other kids. When I walk back to my opponent, sword strapped to my back, I stop about ten feet from him and reach to tie my hair back, an old habit of mine when sparring. The hairs are to short to pull back into the old braid or ponytail, in fact most just slip back to brush against my chin, but the action is more for nostalgia and to get me back in the mindset to fight. Finished, I set my feet shoulder width apart and flex my fingers, muscles going lax and loose.

"You sure ya want to do this?" Shane asks me suddenly. "You can still back out and I won't think any less of you." His mocking tone sets a fire in my veins and I tilt my chin up, clenching my jaw.

"Ready when you are," I call out to him and the man shrugs as if to say _I warned her _before he narrows his eyes at me, obviously trying to deduce the best course of action.

Our audience, all twenty plus of them, wait with bated breath for one of us to move. Absentmindedly, I let my gaze drift over Shane's shoulder and see Carl staring at me with eyes as wide as the moon, looking as if he isn't even breathing. Christ, the kid looks like he's going to wet himself in excitement.

It's during my observation of the boy, my millisecond distraction, that Shane decides to strike. One second, the both of us are still and frozen and the next, Shane's lunging at me, swinging the stick at my left side. My attention snaps back to the fight and, even though my brain's still playing catch up, I can blatantly see that Shane has checked his swing and, if I were to let it make contact with me, it would barely even leave a bruise. Well, we can't have any of that now can we? Darting my hand up as fast as I can, I sidestep Shane's blow at the last second, wrenching the katana out of its sheath and bringing it down it a full blow arch, twisting the blade so the dull side pins Shane's stick to the ground. The loud smack echoes like a gunshot, the impact slightly jars my arm, and I hear a few collective gasps as Shane stumbles, his momentum throwing him slightly off balance. I grin and withdraw my sword, freeing his stick and letting him totter a few feet forward.

When he has righted himself, he whirls back around to face me, his face both confused and surprised. "Wanna rethink that going easy on me bit," I taunt him. I'm grinning or smirking, I can't really tell, but I do know this is the most normal, the most _alive, _I have felt in ages. God, I needed this. Shane shakes his head, trying to shake off the mishap, and straightens to face me once again. However, this time he is more cautious in his movements, he watches me warily, eyes narrowed and body tense for my next move. I smirk, I'm sure of it this time, and twirl my katana in hand. Don't want to keep him waiting now do I?

With a speed I have only used when fighting for my life, I lash out, aiming for Shane's left shoulder, bringing the sword down from above my head. He's slow to react, almost too late if I was really out to harm him, and the tip of my sword tears a small hole in his grungy T-shirt, the rest of the steel skating down the length of his stick and shaving off a portion of the wood. I hear Carl gasp, a chocking sound, but I don't turn to look; I keep my eyes trained on Shane as he stumbles back and touches surprised fingertips to the cut on his shoulder, his eyes shocked as they come away spotted red. A trickle of remorse bleeds through me, momentarily overriding my adrenaline and excitement, and I drop the katana to my side, the tip barely touching the ground.

"You all right Shane?" I ask in concern, cocking my head to the side. I gnaw on my lip. "Maybe we should stop." I really don't want to hurt him and fighting with a sharp blade cannot end well, especially when my opponent is lacking both my level of skill and a weapon to match my own. Shane blinks but then shakes his head, a smile stretching his lips, though this one is far less cocky.

"Hell no girl. I'm just getting started!" And with that, he takes a fighting stance, the stick held in front of in a two-hand grip. I bite my lip again but nevertheless follow his lead.

We circle each other again, like two lions on the prowl, and when it becomes obvious he is not going to initiate, I decide to. I don't us my full speed again, as I said I don't want to hurt him, but I also don't want this over too quickly. Selfishly, I'm relishing in this exercise. However, I am still quick enough to dart out and rap Shane on his left hip, hard enough to cause another bubble of worry to burst through me. Even though I have the blade turned out, so as not to harm him, the former cop still winces in pain and jumps to the side as the steel smacks into him. I make an apologetic face but the man doesn't see it, already lunging out to deal his own blow. I manage to block the swing aimed at my left hip, my katana twisted down, the point nearly digging into the soil, but I wasn't ready for Shane to push forward, his foot slinging behind my leg and yanking forward, wrenching me off my feet. My feet flip out from underneath me and I collapse with a wheezy grunt, the breath momentarily knocked out of me, but I have enough reason to jerk my katana parallel to my body, blade turned out, in time to catch Shane's downward swing at my torso. The wood meets steel with a jarring thud and I feel my sword sink into the stick a few inches.

"Shane," I hear someone call out in reproach but I can barely hear the shout over the roar of blood in my ears.

Gasping, I look up at Shane, confusion etched into my features. "What," I gasp out. "The hell Shane? That's…cheating!" I thought we had agreed to a sword, or stick and sword, fight! Not a back alley, no rules, bar none, brawl! Upon seeing I'm not really injured, Shane just grins down at me, expression gaining back some of its cockiness.

"All's fair in love and war sweetheart," he crows before he tugs his stick off my katana and steps back, flourishing his weapon as if it truly was a sword. I narrow my eyes at him and struggle back to my feet, dragging my forearm across my brow to wipe away the rivulets of sweat that are streaming into my eyes.

"_Oh he wants to be like that huh? Well, two can play that game," _I think and then I'm springing forward, intent on leaving a few bruises of my own on the cocky cop.

Our spar goes on for what seems like an eternity but what I know can only be a no more than fifteen minutes as the sun has barely moved from directly above me. In that short span of time, however both Shane and I have acquired our own set of injuries and wounds, cuts, scrapes, and bruises. Though, to be honest, he has a few more than I do. I try not to smirk at that fact. But, my arms are starting to grow slightly leaden, the muscles beginning to burn from exertion and a small cut above my eye keeps obscuring my vision with a steady trickle of blood. Shane looks to be tiring too; his moves are a little more sluggish, his blows not as powerful as before. I know that I can go on for, at the _very_ least, another fifteen minutes, the longest training session I had with sensei had lasted nearly an hour after all, but, seeing as this is only a "friendly" spar, I do not see the point in pushing myself to that limit. If some Walkers were to attack, knock on wood there, I wouldn't want Shane and I to be too incapacitated to fight them off. Besides, even though I'm sure Carl, who is behind me as I'm facing the Winnebago, is probably just a pool of over excited goo on the outskirts of our little circle, I think he deserves to see a grand finale before I am too tired to deliver one. Resolved to end the fight now, I divert my attention back to my opponent, taking in the way he's swaying to and fro, the way his shirt is drenched in sweat, and the way he's favoring his left hip, from where I had checked him early on in our spar. He's at his limit. If I were any kind of descent, I'd put him out of his misery now.

I can't quite check my smirk this time.

Shane and I bob and weave for a few more moments, feigning jabs and thrusts, but he is ultimately the next one to attack next. He wants to end this too; I can tell. Using all the speed and strength that years on the police force had granted him, Shane charges forward and hauls his branch above his head, moving to strike at my face or neck. I can tell by the play of his muscles that he's not checking this blow. Good.

Rolling unto the balls of my feet, I relax and wait until the very last second again, his stick almost slamming into me, before I quickly step to the side, flinging my sword level with my forehead, the blunt edge facing Shane and the tip slanted down and to the right. With a loud smack and grating sound, Shane's stick slides down the length of my sword, skittering down to the ground as I flip the katana up, over, and against the side of his neck, the sharp tip resting just over his jugular.

The world grinds to a stuttering halt as the two of us stand there, barely a foot from each other, connected by my length of steel. Shane and I are heaving in deep breaths, the sounds harsh and too loud in the deafening silence and suddenly, the taller man tilts his head down to look at me, his eyes wide and shocked as hell. A thrill of delight burns through me and I bare my teeth in my teeth in a combination of a smirk and a grin before pushing very lightly on my katana, the tip just barely breaking the skin.

"I win," I pant out and then I take a step back, withdrawing my sword from his skin and slipping it back into its sheath with a definitive thrust. Shane blinks at me and lifts a hand up to rub his neck, mouth opening to respond but Carl beats him to it.

"THAT WAS SO _**AWESOME**_," the young boy shouts, running up from behind me, skidding to a halt between Shane and I. His eyes are wide as plates and blue as the sky and I'm afraid his face is going to shatter into a million pieces his smile is so big. I manage a tired smile in return and reach out to ruffle his hair affectionately.

"Was that good enough for you kiddo," I ask, still panting.

Carl bobs his head up and down so fast I know it's just going to bounce right off. "You were so _amazing! _Like when you first pinned Shane's stick and then you were like _bam, bam, bam, _and hit him on the hip! Oh! And then when he-"

His enthusiastic babble fades into the background for a moment as someone thrusts a canteen of cool water into my hand. I make an appreciative noise and then throw my head back, letting the refreshing liquid slide down my throat. When the container is half empty, I pull my lips away and wipe some sweat from my forehead, turning back to Carl and trying to catch up with his on going commentary. "-you and then you were like _wham _and his stick was like _useless _and your sword was like _right _there against his neck! You could have taken off his head!"

I laugh as Carl adds dramatic hand gestures to his retelling and bring the canteen up to my lips again. "Yeah but that was only cuz Shane was going easy on me. Isn't that right Shane," I call him out, smirking as I take another swig of water.

To his credit, the man just laughs good-naturedly. "Alright, alright. That was stupid of me to say. You are more than capable of whooping my butt even with me trying my hardest. Happy?"

A triumphant snicker leaves me. "A bit," I tell him but then I gesture to his neck and hip with my free hand. "I didn't hurt you too bad though did I? If I did, I'm sorry. I might have gotten a little carried away." I wince at him apologetically. But Shane just waves me off as he takes a deep gulp from his own canteen, upending the rest on his head and rubbing the cool water into his overheated skin.

"Nah, you're good. Besides, I think I might have paid you back for these with some interest." My lower back, the cut on my brow and a nasty bruise on my shoulder throb in agreement.

"Touché," I shrug. At Shane's words, Carl whirls around, as if just remembering he was there, and then the boy is running towards the exhausted looking cop, spewing praises on _him_ on and restarting his ardent recount of the last twenty odd minutes or so. I chuckle at the sight and take another swig of water.

Suddenly, Glenn and Amy are standing in front of me and they have smiles to rival Carl's. "You have got to be the coolest person I've ever met," Glenn grins, his hat and his expression making him appear boyishly young even though I know he is a few years older than me. Amy nods in agreement, her own smile blindingly white.

"Totally! That last move was like something out of a Bruce Lee movie! It was _awesome." _

I blush a bit at their praises and tuck a strand of sweaty hair behind my ear. "I don't think Bruce Lee fought with a sword but thanks anyway," I say.

Amy makes an exasperated noise. "You know what I mean. But anyway- "

I listen with slightly embarrassed patience, smiling and try to get my heart and breathing under control as various camp members come up to me and offer their own praises and commentary. Lori is vastly impressed but she also exhibits a bit of concern for my wellbeing to which I wave her off, telling her its just a few bumps and scrapes. She doesn't look all that convinced but she assents either way and then goes off to talk to Shane and I have a feeling he's in for a bit of a scolding. Oops. Dale is basically of the same mind, as is Jacqui, both kind, mothering hens. Morales, however, is more of the former feeling than the latter and says that I'm "one bad ass chica." I'm not exactly fluent in Spanish but I think I got that reference anyway. I can't help but laugh at his new moniker.

After the initial congratulations are over, Shane comes over and tells me to rest up for a while and when I'm ready, we'll go down to the quarry together and restock on water. I blush at his request, knowing full well it's because of me and the near gallon of water I've just consumed, and give my consent, telling him to just give me thirty minutes and I'd be ready. The man looks at me for a moment like I'm crazy and then shakes his head with a chuckle.

"Girl, we ain't all that young," he grouses but I can tell he's joking. "Why don't we make it an hour yeah?"

I blush again but nod. The former cop claps me on the shoulder in a friendly gesture and tells me one last time "good fight" before he goes to sit in a chair near the Winnebago, Carl trailing after him like an obedient puppy. Glenn and Amy are still by my side and suggest that we go sit down to relax and I groan in abject agreement, letting them each take an arm and drag me to the closet shade. I'm tired, but it's a good kind of exhausted; the kind of tired one gets from having fun, not the type I've experienced in the last few weeks, running and fighting for my life.

However, as I lift my head to watch where we are headed, I don't really want to trip over my own feet, I think I catch sight of something but immediately shake my head in denial and turn back to respond to something Glenn had said, dismissing what I had thought I had seen as impossible.

I must have a slight touch of heatstroke because there is no way in hell I just saw Daryl Dixon walking away from the back of the RV, slinking back into the tress. He was still back at his tent with Merle, King of the Fuck Heads. I'm hallucinating, dehydrated, because the only reason he would be near the RV is to watch the fight and…it's more probable that a walker had stopped by for the same reason. Unbidden, my eyes flicker back to the spot I had though I'd seen him but I find only trees and dirt. I shake my head. Damn, I really do need to sit down.

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><p><strong>(1) Whetstone- a sharpening stone used for knives and other cutting tools<strong>

**(2) if you want to see Audrey's finishing move go to this URL ( watch?v=gDof81cMB8E) and skip forward to :32 seconds :)**

**And there is chapter 6 :) I hope you enjoyed it! This was my first "fight" scene so I don't know how I did on that :/ Please tell me if it was up to par and if not, tell me how I can make it better :) Also, if there is anything else that could be better, if i'm making someone out of character or anything else i can improve, PLEASE feel free to bring it to my attention! :D**

**AND PLEASE REVIEW! :D I want to personally thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter :) You guys are the reason I'm continuing this story! Thanks so much! :D**

**Again, I have two ideas started for the next chapter, be it another one from Audrey's POV or one from Daryl's and i NEED to know which one you guys would like better so tell me in your review :)**

**That's all I have now. :)**

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**


	7. A Changing Wind

**Hey sorry for the long wait. This chapter took on a mind of its own . **

**So, after reading some of the reviews for last chapter, I decided to go with a chapter in Daryl's POV. Kinda. **

**Also, heads up, nothing particularly "new" happens in this chap. :/ It's more of a recap of some key points in the previous chaps of this story but told through Daryl's eyes I hope you still like it though! **

**Tell me what you think of this chap and if I should continue doing ones like this. It was a bit harder and a bit different from what I usually do so I don't really know how it turned out :/ I'm completely open to suggestions and CONSTRUCTIVE criticisms. **

**Anyways I hope you enjoy and remember to please review because they make my life so much better! :D**

**Disclaimer: I own not TWD *****sadly x(***** but I do own my OC and her plot. **

**Warnings: Strong language ahead. Sorry if it offends. Don't mean to, just doin it for the sake of the story.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: A Changing Wind<strong>

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><p>The forest lays silent beneath the baking Georgia sun. The wind barely stirs, barely moans; when it does it is hot and humid, suffocating and sticky, and no matter how far one traveled, there is always the perpetual smell of death in the air, as if the very atmosphere had died and is decaying.<p>

Daryl Dixon yanks a filthy rag out of the back pocket of his equally filthy jeans and swipes angrily at his brow, mopping up the sweat that resided there. Georgia heat has always been unforgiving and today is no different. It's as if someone has stuffed this god-forsaken state in the oven, cranked it to the highest setting, walked away to do something and forgot to fuckin come back. His shoulders sting with sunburn, his mouth is parched from dehydration, and his shirt clings to his back, drenched with sweat. He's been out here for _hours_, hiking through these woods, up and down these goddamn hills and what did he have to show for it? Blue eyes snap down and glare at the two squirrels and brace of rabbits that hang near his left hip. "_Fuckin nothin that's what," _he thinks angrily to himself. "_Merle better be havin more luck than me." _If he isn't…well someone is going hungry tonight and it ain't gonna be him or Merle. Those lazy, good for nothing, sons of bitches can kiss his white ass.

A sour taste awakes in his mouth and Daryl spits harshly to the side. Just thinking of those people, all uppity fuckin city folk who couldn't tell north from south or how to light a goddamn fire in the middle of a _volcano,_ sets Daryl's teeth on edge. He doesn't know why him and Merle had stuck around. They were doin just _fine _on their own; huntin when they needed to eat, taking turns at night to sleep, killin walkers when they got close enough to pose a threat. The Dixon brothers are _made _for this shit. These extra people though, they _complicate _things. Now there are more mouths to feed and _chores _to do and Daryl didn't know how one of those stupid motherfuckers survived _this _long because everyone is lost without their precious gadgets and do-dads and _god_ they made Daryl want to just _scream _in frustration.

Suddenly, a twig snaps and the hunter swings his gaze, and crossbow, to the left, trained blue eyes narrowed as they searched for the source. An endless expanse of trees meets his scrutinizing look, stretching for miles in every direction, and, for all intents and purposes, the forest seems dead, empty and still. But a man like Daryl knows different, a man like Daryl can see the subtleties that are lost to other people. Because Daryl had been raised in a dead end little town in the middle of nowhere, as hick as you could get, and had been taught to track since the day he could damn walk, toddlin around on unsteady legs as Merle, who was barely a teenager at the time, taught him the basics of footprints and impressions on the ground. His brother might be the biggest asshole he knows but Daryl owes him his life because it was Merle who taught him to hunt, taught him to fend for himself since their good for nothin Pa couldn't be bother to get off his ass and do more than beat the crap out of his sons when he finally got drunk and bored. And it is because of all those endless hours and starvin days, all those bruises and aches, that Daryl can now spot the broken twigs and trampled grass scattered on the ground ten feet from him with ease, as if they were flashin road signs and screamin sirens. It is because Daryl has been huntin to eat since Merle's first stint in juvie that he can see the thin branches quiverin and the flutterin of the leaves and, like so many times before, he oh so slowly raises his crossbow to eyelevel and puts his finger on the trigger and-

With the suddenness of a flash of lightning, a streak of brown explodes out of the shrub and attempts to bound across the forest floor, but before it can make it more than a few feet, a twitch of Daryl's finger sends an arrow flying, straight and true, right through its heart. There is a short, breathless squeal, a rustle and a tumble of limbs, and the rabbit lays still and quiet amongst the leaves, gone. Daryl lowers his crossbow and his lips twitch in something akin to triumph as he makes his way over to the deceased animal. An expert yank returns his arrow to him and Daryl wipes the shaft on the hem of his shirt. An errant thought runs through his mind that maybe he should use something cleaner but he dismisses the idea with a snort. He had to clean and cook the damn things anyway; if someone has a problem with it then they can go fuck themselves. Jerking the string of his bow into the firing position, Daryl notches his arrow and then bends to pick up the dead rabbit. However, as he hefts the animal up, his nose wrinkles a bit as he notices something. Bringing the rabbit to eye level, he turns it this way and that, eyes ranking across the small form, before he grunts sharply in derision. The thing barely weighs three pounds and most of that was fur. It would be a miracle if this could manage to feed those damn brats back at the camp let alone the rest of the fuckin ingrates. Shit. With the rate at which this hunt is goin, someone really _is_ gonna go hungry tonight.

Daryl curls his lips at the thought and tells himself that he doesn't give a flyin shit; they aren't his problem. Not at all. That bastard Walsh can fuck off because it isn't Daryl's fault Mother Nature had decided to be a grade A cunt and fuck them all over. That son of a bitch is lucky Daryl and Merle even offer any of the food they catch. The way Daryl sees it, that food is his and his brother's by right. They are the ones huntin and trackin through the damn wild and they are the ones that have to clean the kills afterward because, had Daryl mentioned that the fuckers are _useless? _But they are _entitled _useless people and _goddamn _do they like to run their mouths and complain. Every single last one of them bitch and moan from sun up to sun down, whining how hot it was or how the squirrel was too _gamey_ and flavorless or how the world just isn't _**fair**_. Christ on a crutch Daryl doesn't know how he keeps himself from putting an arrow between all their eyes and just ending their, and his, misery.

Especially that damn old man with that _stupid _hat of his and his never ending nagging. Daryl doesn't remember marrying the man but he can nag like the best of the bitches in the world.

Sharp and shrill, a bird caws in the distance, drawing Daryl from his musings, and he tilts his head back to stare at the sky. A thin and insubstantial canopy partially shields the expansive blue ceiling of the world but Daryl can still track the position of the sun, which is just nearly above him. Daryl tears at the chapped skin of his lip with his teeth, mind turning over itself as he debates his options, thoughts turning back to survival. He had left the camp just shortly after sunrise this morning and it is now right around noon or one o'clock. But, for all that time, all that effort, he has jack shit to show for it, just a handful of critters that will barely even feed him. He's circled the immediate area around the quarry all mornin, combin the hills and the trees, eyes wide open for every animal track and broken twig; there is nothing here. It is too close to the city, too close to where everythin went to shit. Animals aren't stupid. They would have realized the world was endin and high tailed it the hell outta Dodge which means…if he is goin to bring back more food…he needs to expand his huntin ground. A noise of aggravation tears itself from his throat and Daryl closes his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose. This was gonna be a bitch. But Daryl isnt't some pussy bitch; he'd man up and get shit _done _thank you very much.

Taking a deep breath, Daryl decides to head south. There is more wilderness and open land in that direction and it got him farther away from Atlanta. Less geeks, less potential people, more food. It also takes him farther away from camp, which means he might have to stay out over night, never ideal, but he doesn't have much of a choice. He needs the food and if doesn't come back with enough for everyone, he just _knows _Walsh is gonna start up again and Daryl can't promise that he can stop himself from shootin the bastard right through that goddamn bitchin mouth of his.

"_I better fuckin find somethin," _Daryl grumps to himself as he ties the rabbit to the string of game on his hip. "_Or I swear to whoever is listenin, I won't be goddamn responsible for what, or __**who, **__I fuckin shoot next." _Pissed and tired but never going to admit it, Daryl turns his body south and shoulders his crossbow, striding deeper into the forest, sun on his back and the familiar crunch of Earth beneath his boot.

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><p>It is nearly three hours later, from Daryl's reckoning, and he is just about ready to fuckin shoot the next thing that twitches. Three hours, miles upon miles, sweat and blood he has spent and he has caught <em>nothing. <em>Not a deer, not a bird, not even another damn squirrel. A few miles back, he had shot a small fox, not much but it had at least been _something, _but when he had drawn closer he had seen the crust of white foam along the edges of its mouth and the sickly almost decaying smell that radiated off its fur like it had been dead for hours and not just mere seconds. Daryl had spat and cursed and kicked the damn thing a few feet for good measure because he was just so pissed off and of course the fox had _rabies _and goddamn it he was about ready to just head back to the quarry, Walsh and the rest of them be damned. However, when the initial fury had ebbed and he could see past the familiar red haze, Daryl had jerked the bolt from the fox's body and wrapped his filthy rag around it before sticking it back into the crossbow's built in quiver. He couldn't use it again, not till he cleaned it thoroughly, but he wasn't just gonna leave it. The tainted bolt tucked away, Daryl had spared the disease-ridden fox one last good kick before he spun and stalked off back into the forest, in search of more game.

A search that is proving rather futile given the fact he hasn't caught sight of any livin thing other than birds for the past twenty minutes. He would have tried to catch the feathered rats but the smart bastards stay up near the treetops, hidden by trees and branches and height. They still mock him though, singing from their unseen perches, and Daryl does his best to not just shoot randomly into the trees to shut them the hell up.

Time ticks by, slow and eventless, and God, he can just hear Merle now. "_Come on now Darlina,"_ the bastard would sneer, face twisted and eyes bright with mocking. "_Didn't I teach ya anything? Man the hell up and fuckin catch something instead of cryin like a damn pussy." _Daryl grits his teeth and shakes a bead of sweat from his eye, anger and resolve curling in his veins.

There is no way in hell he is goin back to camp empty handed, a failure. He'd stay out here all night if he had to and would bring back somethin for Merle and all those assholes to talk about, just wait. The the hunter skirts around a fallen log, swinging his gaze across the forest floor, looking for the slightest sign of life, a bent blade of grass, a twisted twig, a faint footprint, anything that would give away some wayward critter. For a while, it's useless, there is nothing to see, nothing to find, and then…he sees it. It is faint, just a thin trail in the dirt and the remnants of some kind of nut but it is there and that means, by the size and shape of the tracks, there is a squirrel near by with Daryl's name on it. And where there are squirrels, other animals usually are nearby, bigger animals, predators. Lips twitching into a smirk, Daryl lifts his crossbow up and picks lightly through the trees, feet barely making a noise as they connected with Mother Nature. It takes a few minutes, silent moments of studying and searching, but soon enough Daryl spots a familiar brown tuft of fur as it flickers across the ground, quiet and quick. Unsuspecting, the squirrel sprints its way across the dirt, launching itself at the base of a tree and scampering as fast as it can up the trunk.

It doesn't make it halfway before Daryl's arrow pins its skull to the rough bark, spattering red across the brown expanse. Daryl lets the crossbow fall to his side as he strides over to the tree, grabbing the squirrel's lower body as he yanks his bolt from its head. Much like the rabbit, the squirrel isn't very heavy but it's something. After he has bound the squirrel to him, Daryl drags his forearm against his brow and takes a drag from his canteen. The container is closer to empty than he would have liked but Daryl had heard the gurgle of a stream a few minutes ago and it is easy enough to backtrack. Besides, he'd probably have better luck near the water anyways. Animals have to drink too after all.

Moments later and the hunter finds himself sliding down a slight incline towards the creek, minding his feet so as not to go tumbling head first into the ground cuz wouldn't that just be a bitch? The ground gradually levels out and, out of habit, Daryl casts his eyes about for game as he walks more surely. Nothing immediately catches his eye but he shrugs it off. There will probably be something closer to the water. An idea suddenly occurs to him and Daryl absentmindedly reaches for his canteen as he considers the possibility of catching some fish from the stream with his crossbow.

It is because he is so preoccupied with his thoughts that he doesn't see it until he is nearly stepping out of the riverside brush and unto the elevated bank, oblivious and vulnerable. At the last second though, he finally lifts his eyes and what he sees freezes him mid-step, body suddenly going taunt as a wire.

Weeks have past since he had last seen one, since he and Merle had left Atlanta and "civilization" behind and trekked back into the country where they came from. He must have traveled closer to the city than he had intended. Shit. Daryl holds his breath as he stares at the walker across the stream, the figure facing away from him with its head bowed. Above the gurgle of the stream, a faint murmur can be heard, not very clear but it sets Daryl's teeth on edge nonetheless. The thing is moanin, that goddamn hellish noise that makes his skin crawl. No wonder he couldn't find any game; this bastard had chased them all off. Cursin himself for bein a dumbass, Daryl tucks his canteen away and hefts up his crossbow, silently pushing a few branches out of the way as he levels the creature's head in his sights, the movement smooth and practiced. As he stands there, adjusting his aim, Daryl can't help but look the thing over; it has been weeks after all, he wonders if they have changed.

They haven't.

Before it had died, Daryl sees that this walker had been a female, about 5'4, with short brunette hair. Dirty and torn jeans hang off slender hips and a thin white t-shirt wraps around its torso, streaked in dirt and blood. Daryl can't help the errant thought of who had this chick been before she'd been bit, where'd she been, why she'd been stupid enough to let one of them damn things sink its teeth in her. But suddenly, the thing is movin, shiftin, turnin round, and Daryl pushes the thought aside because it doesn't matter who this bitch had been before. Right now, she, _it,_ is a walker and _it _needed to be put the hell down, before it caught sight of him and draws others with its moans. Taking a deep breath, Daryl places the crosshairs right smack dab in the middle of the thing's forehead and goes to squeeze the trigger.

However, as his finger twitches to send a bolt flying, the thing glances up, just for a fraction of an instant and Daryl freezes, muscles seizing, lungs stilling, and nerves short-circuiting because its eyes are _green, _so green that he can see them from here and tell that they are clear and unclouded, not obscured by the milky film of decay. They look bright, they look alive, they look…_human_, but Daryl is already pulling the trigger, the bolt screaming out of the crossbow and flying straight toward the walker's head. Daryl, however, had jerked the crossbow a bit too far to the left in his surprise, altering the bolts course, and instead of going straight through its forehead like he had intended, the bolt only grazes the walker's face before flying off into the trees. The thing makes a suddenly, almost startled noise that sounds like…like a yelp? The fuck? Swearing, Daryl shakes his head and is quick to notch another arrow but as he chances a brief look up to make sure the walker isn't bearing down on him, the thing makes him freeze again.

The walker is sitting on its ass but instead of just slumping there mindlessly, brainlessly moaning like it should have, it's…it's lifting a hand up and brushing the spot where Daryl's arrow had grazed its skull, fingers coming away _red. _A sliver of ice carves its way down Daryl's spine. Walkers bleed black and brown, colors of death and decay. They don't bleed _bright red. _

"What the fuck?"

And they definitely don't _fucking __**talk. **_

Disbelief burning through his veins, Daryl is moving before he knows it, slipping out of the bushes and out into the open, a need burning in him to see if what he is seeing is real, that this walker isn't a walker but a…but a…

At the sound of his movements, the thing across the stream snaps its head up and those bright green eyes stare up at him, wide and shocked and holy fuck she's _fucking human. _The shock of the fact unhinges Daryl's jaw and he's speaking before he can stop himself.

"Sumbitch," Daryl hears himself say as he shoulders his crossbow, incredulity painting his voice cuzthis can't be real. "You ain't no walker."

The girl, because it is a girl, all young and wide eyed and shit, stares at him in utter silence, mouth open and gaping. Daryl gazes back at her, sweat dripping down his face as blood oozes from the girl's temple, slow and thick, like molasses. They are both frozen, just standing, or in her case sitting, there, looking at each other with mirroring expressions of confusion, surprise, and disbelief. Daryl wonders for a brief instant if he has accidently given her brain damage. Or maybe _he's _the one with brain damage, the Georgia sun havin cooked his head, cuz _what the hell is going on? _But then, a bird calls out in the distance and several things happen at once, like the shot at the beginning of a race, the flash of a green light. First, the girl gives a start, like she is being pulled from a dream and then pain and anger awakes in her eyes, like she has just realized Daryl had shot her and lastly…something suddenly overtakes her face, an expression the hunter had only seen in spooked horses and livestock, a scared but utterly resolved look.

"_Fuck," _Daryl thinks, realization crashing into him._ "She's gonna bolt." _

He doesn't know why, can't even begin to explain it, but for some reason…something in Daryl doesn't want her to leave. It's not like he particularly wants her to _stay _it's just…he doesn't want her to go, like if she did…it was something bad, something _wrong_. Hell if that makes any sense but it's what he feels. But it doesn't look like she gives a _fuck _what he wants because Daryl can see the girl's muscles bunching, coiling to run. He lifts a hand to stop her, not knowin what to say but hopin the gesture will be enough.

It isn't.

Because the instant after Daryl lifts his arm, the girl is scrambling and diving to the side, rolling behind a thick tree that grew on the creek bed. "H…hey," he yells out, his voice suddenly too loud and too coarse in the previous silence. "Hey wait!" No response is forthcoming. "Sonvabitch!"

Cursing up and down, Daryl pulls himself fully out of the tangled bushes and staggers forward, jumping off the elevated bank and down into the creek nearly five feet below. The water is cool and fresh as he splashes through it, not even knee deep, and Daryl distantly remembers he had needed to refill his canteen. Moving quickly, he reaches the other side of the stream, a few yards to the left of the tree the girl had dove behind, and he latches his hands on the soft bank, fingers digging deep into the soil as he hauls himself up with a grunt. When he is on his feet, he stutters forward, a twig snapping beneath his unbalanced and clumsy steps. God, he feels like a drunken moron, the way he is staggerin round, but soon, he reaches the tree where the girl is hiding and he rounds the wide trunk just in time to see her lean forward, ready to make a break for it.

Daryl reacts without thinking and everything happens too fast for him to grasp.

Not functioning on all levels, he lunges out, grasping and grabbing, hands slipping around the girl's head and around her waist, rooting her in place, just keeping her _here _so he can say something, anything. The girl goes rigid the instant their skin connects and Daryl has just enough time to ask himself _what the fuck he's doin_ before the girl goes completely and utterly limp, like a dead fish. He hadn't been expecting that. Hell, he doesn't know what he _had _been expectin but it wasn't the bitch passin out. "Fuck!" The grunt is wrenched out of him as the girl becomes a dead weight in his arms, bumping back into his chest harshly, almost knocking the breath out of him. His vision becomes obscured with dark brown hair, his nose invaded by the smells of sweat and dirt and the sharp tang of fear. Daryl tries to twist his head away but only gets far enough as a few inches back before the girl is snapping her skull into the bridge of his nose.

Pain explodes throughout his face as cartilage shatters with a sickening crunch, blood splattering everywhere, warm and wet and the bitch just _broke his nose _and _fuck_ his head is swimming. Distantly, he hears himself cuss and feels the girl wrench herself from his hands, his fingers tugging at skin and clothes before she is completely gone. When his eyes stop watering, Daryl slits them open as much as he can, watching the girl jump over a few wooden crosses before sprinting through clearing beyond.

"Goddamn…wait a sec," Daryl screams out, wrapping a hand around his nose to try and stem the bleeding. The girl doesn't even look back.

"Fuckin hell." He should just let her go, she is no one to him and the less people he deals with the better cuz everyone he meets nowadays is a damn moron, but before he knows it, he's runnin after her, sprintin through the trees.

His head is throbbin and his nose is still gushin and now his lungs are fire cuz damn this bitch can _run _but he doesn't stop and he doesn't know why. They run for God knows how long, her out in front and him behind, a wild game of cat and mouse, but then he loses sight of her, her body slipping behind the trees and out of his line of sight. But he can still hear her, hear as she tramples through the underbrush, loud as a bull in a china shop. He continues to follow, relying on the sounds of her frantic escape, but all of the sudden, her movements slow, her footsteps not so fast, not so wild. "_She's slowin down," _Daryl realizes, like a buck that has outrun its endurance.

Mind running faster than his feet, Daryl darts quickly to the right, pumping his legs faster to try and come out in front of the fleeing girl. It doesn't take that much effort given the girl has come to a stop in a small clearing and is _laughing. _

"I don't see…nothin funny…'bout this shit," Daryl snarls out abruptly around his panting, his anger catching up with him now that he isn't sprinting like a bat outta hell. The girl gasps like the breath is literally ripped from her lungs, choking and breathless, those green eyes of hers nearly fallin out of her head as they catch sight of him. A handful of emotions flash across her face in that one instant, going from shock, to fear, to anger, to resolve, and then suddenly Daryl knows what she is going to do before she can even _twitch. _

"Hey! Don' ya go fuckin runnin off again. I'm not chasin yer ass down this time." He means it too. He might have chased her the first time, he still doesn't _fuckin know why_, but he isn't doin it again. He's tired and he damn hurts and-

"Wh…who said I wanted you to chase me asshole?"

The words draw Daryl up short and he finds himself staring at the girl in puzzled bewilderment. What…what the hell had she just said? Daryl feels confusion and…something akin to admiration suddenly spark in him because she's got to have some balls to say that shit to him. If it was anyone else, Daryl would have already been flying across the small space between them, fists flyin, mouth runnin, but nothing but a mild irritation flares through him because frankly, he's kinda amused. This bitch has some southern gumption to her. But that barbed tongue didn't exactly run did cuz her eyes had gone wide as the moon the second she had uttered the words, like she hadn't meant to say them and she wanted to take them back. Maybe she has less balls than he thought.

The girl continues to stare at him in a dazed silence, seconds ticking by, and Daryl finds himself checkin her out. Not like _that _just…seein who the hell he had nearly killed, still not believin that he is actually _here, _that this is really real cuz really, this can't be happenin.

He notices she's older than he had originally thought, not the wide-eyed kid he'd first assumed. He guesses she is a teenager though, eighteen, maybe nineteen years old, handful of years younger than him at the least. She's also bone rail thin, maybe had been slim at one point but now she's leanin towards emaciated and Daryl wonders at how she had outran him like she had without passin out. His keen eyes drift up her thin figure, over the sharp hipbones and what he guesses must be the beginnins of protrudin ribs, and finally land on her face. She's white, he belatedly notices, pale and fair, not like those spics and niggers that were loungin round back at camp, lazy and worthless, as Merle would say. She's pretty too: has high cheekbones and a soft chin with a tiny cleft and a small, full mouth just resting above it; her nose is slightly crooked though, like it had been broken once before but its not too bad cuz right above it are those goddamn eyes of hers, clear and sharp as fuckin emeralds. Not that Daryl's ever really _seen _an emerald but he guesses this is what they must look like cuz they're the brightest things he has ever seen.

Except…there's a shadow behind them, transparent and fine, like a layer of diluted smoke givin her a…haunted look. He's curious about the sight before he remembers the world had ended and for her to be standin her before him, she had to live through some tough shit. But why does he care? They all had their nightmares; this bitch is no different.

Licking his lips, Daryl finds himself opening his mouth to say something, to break the silence because its grating on his goddamn nerves_,_ unconsciously shifting forward as he does so, and suddenly, the girl is snapping into action, her right hand flying over her left shoulder and _Jesus Christ is that a fuckin sword?_

In response to seeing the blade, silver and glinting deadly in the sunlight, Daryl jerks his crossbow up, leveling it at girl once again, mouth spitting out words he hasn't even stopped to process. "Whoa! Hey calm the fuck down will ya? I'm not gonna hurt ya!"

He mentally blinks at the words but after quick consideration finds that they are true. He doesn't want to hurt this girl, she's just a kid…but if she comes at him with that overgrown knife, all bets are off. Daryl watches as the girl sneers at him, lips twisting up and baring straight, white teeth.

"Coming from the man who has an arrow leveled at me, you'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," is her biting reply and maybe she has more balls than Daryl gave her credit for.

But…wait a goddamn second! She's blamin _him. _Oh _hell_ no.

"Ya drawed yer weapon first," he counters, defensive.

The look she shoots him is down right affronted. "You fucking **shot **me, in the _**head,**_ not ten minutes ago!" She had screamed those words and now she's jabbing a finger at her head, gesturing to the blood gushing out of the gash Daryl's bolt had left on her scalp. But he feels far from remorseful at the moment, aggravation and rage spiraling through his blood like some perverse kind of drug, a well-known, familiar, Dixon drug.

"I thought ya was a walker! And ya fuckin broke my nose for it," he snarls right back and then the girl falls silent and Daryl smirks in triumph because now she can't say _shit_. The girl remains silent for a few beats more and, when Daryl sees she isn't going to attack him, he purses his lips and drops his bow, showing his hands to calm her cuz if she freaks out on him again he might just shoot her. The girl narrows her eyes at him, suspicion and distrust dark in her eyes and expression, but she too lowers her weapon, the blade falling to her side. Daryl finds his eyes drawn to the gleaming silver and the question rolls off his tongue the second it enters his head.

"Where'd the hell ya get that thing," he grunts, jerking his chin towards it. "Never seen no one with a goddamn sword." What the hell is this, a fuckin chink kung fu movie? Christ.

The girl blinks at him in confusion but clears her throat to answer anyway. "I could say the same about your crossbow," she replies cryptically, that challenge and acid still laced in her words. Daryl makes a noncommittal noise, cuz two can play that game, and keeps silent. Which seems to bother the girl because she is talking again before he realizes it.

"Um…what…what are you doing out here anyway? Well, besides shooting unsuspecting people in the head." The question is timid and quiet, just slightly bitter, unlike her previous words and Daryl narrows his eyes at her but only finds genuine curiosity. And a bit of discomfort. Ok a lot of discomfort.

Yeah, well he can damn relate.

Daryl doesn't really know what to do in a situation like this. He doesn't _talk_ to people. He talks to Merle, which didn't really count, and that is it. He curses at the others, grunts at them when he needs to, but doesn't say more than "fuck off" or "screw you." Since everyone back at the quarry hates him, a mutual feeling, he hasn't had need to say more than that. But the girl is looking at him now, waiting for a true answer, like they hadn't just screamed and threatened each other, like he hadn't shot her in the head and she hadn't broken his nose, and it _was _broken, of this he had no doubt. This girl confuses Daryl by her open expressions and weird mood swings, and he doesn't like to be confused. It makes him feel stupid and he isn't stupid. Just cuz he doesn't have some hoity-toity degree like those other fuckers doesn't make him an idiot but right now he feels like one cuz he can't get this girl's number and it pisses him the hell off.

Still, he answers truthfully, mind still turning around the enigma this girl presents, too tired and indifferent to think up a lie. He mutters, "Huntin," at her, cool as can be, before he swings his string of game around as proof, in case she doesn't believe him.

He isn't really expectin her reaction. He thought she might hum or some shit but instead she gasps outright and the down right _starvation _in her gaze surprises him. She looks as if she has never seen food before or like she hasn't eaten since the world went to shit and then Daryl remembes the racket she made crashin through the brush and realizes maybe she hasn't. Her response is weak and murmured, her eyes still transfixed to the line of dead animals lying against his chest.

"O…oh. Uh…it seems you were successful?" Daryl feels a prick of anger race through him, is she mocking him, but he taps it down, settling for a shrug and a two-word reply. The girl is down right incredulous as she stutters out her response, calling the measly display of meat on his back a "whole buffet." A mocking snort explodes out of Daryl and his eyes find hers, a sardonic light glinting in them.

"Six critters ain't gonna feed no one except maybe me," he informs her, feeling the twinge of annoyance roil through him at the reality, but before he can dwell more on the fact the girl gasps, that chocking, breathless noise again, and then she is talking a mile a minute, actually staggering towards him.

"You mean there are more? More people," she exclaims out, eyes wide and winded, but before Daryl can respond, _holy crap let him talk,_ she's sputtering again. "Wait! Wait! You're…you're from Atlanta aren't you?"

And now Daryl's really lost because what the _hell _is this bitch talkin about? Atlanta? Why the _hell _would he be from that death trap? But she's suddenly fuckin bouncin in joy at something, like she's won the goddamn lottery and Daryl is tired of being confused.

"Atlanta? What the hell ya talking bout? I ain't settin foot near that geek filled city," he growls out her, wanting, needing_, demanding_ an answer. The girl's smile slips at his words, dimming ever so slightly in confusion as she askes what a geek was. Daryl's jaw almost drops to the ground at her words, his anger subsiding slightly because damn this chick _must _be the biggest dumbass he's ever met. And that's saying something.

"Geeks," he drawls out, speaking slowly and surely, wondering how stupid she really is. "Ya know…_geeks._ Walkers. Bunch of motherless fuckin piles a shit that try to take a goddamn bite outta ya when ya ain't lookin. Christ, ya stupid or something?"

It's a legitimate question to him but the girl doesn't seem to think so because she bares her teeth in anger at him, eyes bright with indignation, that damn sword of hers twirling in her grasp as she rambles about some refugee center.

…wait...back up. What the fuck did she say? Daryl repeats her words back to her, unbelieving and cynical, and his words are harsh and his tone is harsher but not enough so to cause the look the girl is wearing now: a devastated, sucker punched expression, like Daryl has just informed her for the first time that the world had ended. Daryl's mind spins in circles and he can't fathom how they had gone from runnin, to yellin, to talkin, to _this; _to her gapin and stutterin at him and lookin so _lost _that Daryl suddenly feels pity for this girl and he never feels sorry for _anyone _so he can't place the emotion at first_. _But her eyes are so wide and scared lookin, really like a damn kid, that he finds himselfspeakin more softly as he informs her that Atlanta is overrun and where had she heard otherwise? The girl swallows sharply, her throat constricting as she rasps out something about broadcasts and how she had walked from Dalton, a little town he knows is near Tennessee, and fuckin hell how long has this bitch been walkin?

"Shit…where've ya been," he can't help but ask even though he can't quite meet her gaze, can't quite face that betrayed look in those goddamn green eyes of hers. "Those broadcasts stopped long time ago. Ain't no one left."

The girl stares at him, uncomprehending, blinking, once, twice…and Daryl's about to ask if she had heard him but then she's gasping, sucking in lungfuls of air like she is _drowning, _chest heaving, face blanching, feet stumbling like the Earth's spin has become too much for her. Concern and confusion flare in him, if she passes out he is _leavin _her ass, and he calls out to her, brow furrowed as she staggers into a tree behind her, clingin to it like it's her only anchor to the planet. She doesn't seem to have heard him because she is mutterin to herself, eyes wide and wet and glued to the ground.

"It can't be possible," he hears her say and the denial is so _sharp _in her voice that he realizes in that second…she had truly believed there was some kind of center in Atlanta. Daryl suddenly feels like the worlds biggest bastard for informin her otherwise even though he knows there was nothin for it.

Suddenly, the girl snaps her eyes up, those green orbs starin right at him and their begging, _pleading, _for him to tell her different, to tell her he's lying, but Daryl can do nothing more than stare back at her in blatant honesty. He can't gonna sugar coat it; doesn't want to. The world sucked and sucked some more; him lyin to her wouldn't solve anythin, just make it worse. At his unflinching gaze, the girl's face crumples, just falls and caves, those eyes of hers goin out like a damn light and Daryl waits for the tears to spill over.

He isn't prepared for her to start fuckin _screamin. _

"**GOD DAMN IT!"**

Daryl nearly jumps out of his skin at the piercing cry and he gawks as the girl throws back her head and howls at the sky, the noise unchecked, unbalanced, and wild. For a moment, he is frozen in his spot, not believing that this girl is actually shrieking like a damn banshee, but then the reality crashes into him and he suddenly realizes that if there _were _any _true _walkers in the next fifty miles, they were undoubtedly hearin this ringin of the goddamn dinner bell. This bitch was literally gonna kill them! He's moved before he realizes it and suddenly, he's right in front of the bellowing girl, hand once more finding its way across her chapped and split lips. The noise blessedly cuts off, only the echoes remaining, and Daryl almost sighs in relief before the girl shoves him back, surprisingly _strong, _and he is sent staggering back. Biting back a curse, Daryl jerks his head up to see the girl look frantically for what he assumes is her sword that's lying a few feet from her in the grass and he'll be _damned _if he is gonna let her get a hold of that thing. He lunges back towards her and their bodies collide with a muffled _thud _before he shoves her back into the tree, hands pinning her wrists, _holy shit they __**are**__ fuckin thin_, as he slaps his hand across her snarling lips. Daryl hisses at her to shut up, reminding her that the world has _ended _and her screamin is bringin every geek for miles around down on them. But the girl only glares at him, hatred in her eyes, as she continues to struggle and thrash, like a buckin bronco. He tries again to get her to calm down but his words only proved to piss her off more because she's suddenly throwing off his hand and baring her teeth at him in this crazed, feral, grief filled expression.

"So what," she snarls up at him, bitin and snappin like a rabid dog. "There's nothing for me anyway! Atlanta's gone and every city from here to Dalton is over run! There's nothing left alright? Everyone's dead and my numbers up and coming! Who give's a hell if I die today, tomorrow, or a week from now?" Tears brim in her eyes and Daryl suddenly finds himself pissed beyond measure, her words makin his blood boil.

"So what? Yer just gonna give up? How pathetic. I thought ya wanted to live. Ya ran from me like ya did, fuckin sprintin through the woods like a goddamn deer," he growls back at her, his own teeth bared, voice disdainful.

But the girl isn't listening, she just spits some words back at him and bucks all the harder, demanding to be let go and Daryl sees in her eyes that she really _has _given up. A welter of emotions tumbled through him at the knowledge but then, he's even more pissed off than he had been before. He's down right _infuriated _because this bitch has survived _this _long, walked all the way across the goddamn state almost, and she is gonna throw in the towel cuz things hadn't turned out the way she wanted? At first Daryl had thought that maybe this girl wasn't as bad as the dumbasses he dealt with back at camp, she had to have some strength and smarts to get this far, she obviously had a mouth on her, but now he realizes…she's just as bad. Just as _weak. _Just as _pathetic._ It makes him think there are only walkers, him, and idiots left in this godforsaken world and he can't keep the disgust out of his words as he spits them in her face.

"Look, I don' give a fuck if ya want to kill yerself alright. Ya ain't my problem. But if yer gonna do it, at least go into the goddamn city. I don' need no walkers wanderin close to camp cuz ya decided to lose yer damn mind nearby."

And then, he's done. Done with talkin, done with helpin, or at least _tryin _to, and he is done with _her. _He steps back from the girl, givin her one last glare of contempt, and then he spins around, stalkin away from her, not looking back. He had been tellin the truth. She _isn't _his problem. He doesn't know her, she was just some idiot girl he had just met in the woods and this is the apocalypse; it's every man for himself. Daryl still has a hunt to complete and the trek back to camp to endure and this chick has wasted precious daylight hours and _fuck _why the hell was he actually feelin a bit guilty for walkin away? _She isn't his problem. _She isn't his goddamn problem and he doesn't give a shit if she dies out here or not! It's her fault for bein so stupid, so weak! Not his. It was _no_ skin off Daryl's back.

Then the bitch goes and calls out to him and Daryl is stoppin before he could stop himself. He doesn't turn around, cuz really he _doesn't _care, he just stopped cuz…cuz…well it doesn't matter cuz the girl continued talkin anyway. "You…you said camp. But you…there's nothing in Atlanta. What…what were you talking about?" she asks and her voice is so soft and so timid and scared and goddamn it.

Daryl turns his head and glances over his shoulder, eyes taking in the girl's slumped posture and fathomless, lost eyes. "There's a handful of dumb fucks few miles in. Got some supplies, few weapons, not much," he tells her truthfully and when something akin to hope sparks in the girl's face Daryl finds himself wondering what he should do now.

How the hell has it come to this anyway? He was just huntin a few moments ago and then this bitch bowls him over with the force of a freakin freight train and now he's telling her bout camp? The hell had come over him? Why had he stopped? Why had he run after her? Shit, why was he _still here? _He can't answer any of those questions and it pisses him off. Daryl bites the inside of his cheek harshly and considers his options. Should he take her back? Or just leave her here? His eyes absentmindedly drift over her desolate figure again and he asks himself what Merle would do. But then Merle's smirking, leering face, enters Daryl's thoughts and he already knows what his older brother would do. He'd more than likely bring her back…but he'd ask for compensation. Finder's fee and shit. Daryl considers the idea for a moment, just a split second cuz the bitch was stupid and crazy but she _was _pretty, but then his very _being _rebelled against it so hard, he nearly chocked. He can't do that, not with those fuckin eyes lookin at him like that, just beggin for him to _save _her. Daryl's no knight in shinnin armor, he wasn't goin to coddle the bitch but he decides that…he'll give her a chance. This _one _chance because the world wasn't offerin up very many nowadays but if she gives him trouble he'd just kill her like he's playin to kill all those other fuckers back at camp. He really will.

"Look…if ya want, kid, I'll take ya," he suddenly grunts. "But ya can't be losin yer shit and screamin or fightin every couple'a minutes. I don' have time for that crap. Ya start up again and I'll leave ya in the middle of the fuckin forest and don' think I won'." The girl winces a bit at his words but, after a moment, she nods slowly in acceptance, face red in embarrassment and eyes slightly downcast. Daryl sighs harshly, cuz great now he just found _another _mouth to feed, he's as big an idiot as the rest of them, before he gestures for the girl to follow him and turns to stride into the trees. He doesn't turn around again but he hears the girl crash into the tree line behind him, footsteps fast and uneven as she suddenly draws abreast to him. He ignores her, she isn't important right now, and instead tries to return his mind to the hunt he was supposed to be on, before this girl had come and completely screwed him over. It isn't that hard; Daryl is a survivalist and nothin means more to him than keepin Daryl Dixon alive and fuckin kickin. Questions kick start in his head, quick and spontaneous but all relavent and necessary. Where were they and how far had they run anyways? He still needs to return to that damn creek to fill up his canteen and how many hours do they have left till dark cuz-

"My name's Audrey," the girl suddenly says, making Daryl's eyes dart over to look at her, surprised. She doesn't meet his gaze. "Audrey Bennett." He blinks as the words process, _oh it's her name, _and Daryl purses his lips at the girl, _Audrey, _and grunts, shaking off his surprise as he reaches back to grab his crossbow.

"Daryl Dixon," he mutters in response, now not meeting _her _gaze. "Now be quiet. Yer gonna scare off the game." For once, she seems to listen to him because she doesn't say another word. Daryl finds himself mostly thankful for the silence cuz now he can hear the chittering of woodchucks in a tree a few yards in front of them, but a small part of him, very small, miniscule really cuz he shuts it up fast enough, feels sorry for the absence of the girl Audrey's voice cuz, when she wasn't screamin, cursin, or cryin, she actually has a nice voice, soft and liltin with a southern drawl, though not as thick as his ow-.

Daryl suddenly cuts himself off mid thought because he is _not _thinking about this right now. He needs to hunt, he had jack shit _remember_, and it's going to get dark real soon…eventually…sometime today…whatever. He shoots a glare at the figure beside him, her own eyes trained on her ratty Converse, oblivious to her companion's inner ranting.

"_The fuck did I just goddamn do," _Daryl mentally snarls. He's just fucked himself over that's what. Shit, he can't believe he's really here right now, some random bitch in tow. He had just been mindin his own business a few minutes ago and now…here he is. It is so surreal…and so jacked up. All he had wanted this mornin was some goddamn game to feed himself and the other sorry pricks back at the quarry and the universe decides to give him _another _mouth to feed.

He would think this a dream but not even Daryl's nightmares are _this _fucked up.

Fuckin A. He suddenly wishes that Merle hadn't drank the last of their whiskey a week ago cuz _damn _he needs a drink.

* * *

><p><strong>Three Days Later <strong>

The haul is better this time, easier to find, but not by much. Daryl rubs his brow with the back of his hand; skin sliding along skin, eased by a film of sweat. The squirrel in his hand is plump and fat, a good catch, but for reason, the hunter can't find it in himself to skin it. He scowls at the dead creature, irritation prickling under his skin like ants, before dropping it, and the buck knife in his hand, unto the unstable fold out table he's been using to clean his kills. Growling under his breath, Daryl sits back in Merle's piece of shit camping chair and tips back his head, eyes slipping closed.

Damn is he tired. In the last three days, he's gone on two fuckin hunting trips, successful ones thank you fuckin kindly, cleaned almost every single thing he's caught, Merle's been hittin his stash again and Daryl doesn't trust him to clean the crittters correctly, and hell, he's had to do some other shit round the camp too since the rest of 'em are about as useful as shit! Not to mention that shit that old man had started yesterday; that's a whole other exhausting cluster fuck in itself. He really though Merle was gonna shoot the dumbass.

Now, Dixons don't complain; they don't bitch or whine, a lesson he had learned the hard way early on, but…goddamn. He's really wishing he and Merle had stayed on their own. Make shit a whole lot easier. But, life isn't fuckin easy and so, here Daryl is, cleanin and skinnin his most recent haul while Merle is God knows where and the Christ did he mention he was _tired as hell?_

Daryl exhales harshly and lets his head fall back further. His eyelids flicker red and black with the shifting of the tree's leaves above him and he can feel the sun shinning directly on his face, hot and bright. It's nearly noon, nearly time for lunch but right now, every one can fuck off. There should be enough food left over from his first huntin trip so there's no rush on this haul. A few calm moments pass and Daryl contemplates findin Merle, high or not, and makin his ugly ass work while he goes down to the quarry and bathes. It's been a few days-a week?-and Merle says he's gonna be dirty enough soon to be black as them niggers. Daryl's lip curls as he remembers his brother's hate filled words. Fuckin asshole his brother was.

Before Daryl can get up though, or even summon the strength to actually think about doing so, a loud exclamation of joy catches his attention. It was such a weird noise, so disjointed and incongruent with the apocalypse he lives in, that, before he knows it, Daryl finds himself opening his eyes and turning to locate the source of the sound.

It's the little boy, the white one, he can't remember his name, that had made the noise, practically dancin in his place as he talks excitedly to the blonde little girl whats-her-name by his side. The kid's eyes are nearly fallin out his head and he looks excited enough to burst. Daryl snorts and shakes his head, stupid damn brat, and makes to close his eyes again but a sudden movement beside the kids makes him do a double take.

He hasn't seen her since she walked into camp. Well, he has, out of the corner of his eye, just a glimpse of the back of her head, an arm here, a leg there, but he hasn't seen her fully since she shook Walsh's hand. She, she's a _she _cuz her name doesn't matter, not to him, _annoying bitch,_ looks…different somehow Daryl absentmindedly notices and it makes him unconsciously turn towards her, though he doesn't need to, doesn't want to, doesn't know _why_. She's…smiling now, bright and open as she talks to the kid, and the gesture changes her face, makes her seem younger than she does when angry but older than she does when sad and lost…holy shit. Even the bitch's _expressions _confuse the crap out of him. Daryl watches as she bends to pick up that goddamn sword of hers, slipping it back into the sheath like she's done it a million times. Her movements are fluid and sure but then she drops something, a gray blur tumbling from her fingers, and she fumbles after it, awkward, graceless, and Daryl sneers as he abruptly remembers she's a _fuckin kid; _barely older than the brat that's bouncing at her side, annoyin and loud.

Annoyin and loud. Christ. That's her in two words.

"_That bitch is the mouthiest cunt in the goddamn south. Why the hell ya bring her back lil brother? Shoulda just left her ass ta rot in the woods." _

Merle's heated words from their hunt yesterday suddenly ring loud in Daryl's head and he can't help but ask himself the same question. Why _did _he bring her back? To be nice? Give her a second chance? The hell? Dixon's aren't _nice. _They don't give a shit about other people. The world never gave a fuck about him so he's just returnin the favor. It's just him and Merle in the world; kin, family, that's all that matters. All these useless fuckers don't mean shit to him; he could leave right now, him and Merle, not look back and not loose one wink of goddamn sleep.

So why had he brought this girl back? It's three days later and he still doesn't know why. Not like he's been thinkin bout it though; he hasn't. Bu Daryl's content to go with momentary insanity caused by heatstroke, just to get the question to leave him the fuck alone, but Merle's words, once again, crop up in his head, all leerin drawl and lidded eyes. "_She does got a sweet ass though. And nice tits. Maybe I do know why ya brought her back Darlina. Gonna bump some uglies with the bitch?" _

Daryl flushes at the memory, jerking back to the abandoned squirrel and buck knife as a heat flares across the back of his neck, sudden and quick. Damn it. His brother was the biggest motherfucker he knew. Like he'd want to do something stupid like that. Or _with _somethin like _her. _The bitch is scrawny, big mouthed, and barely even legal. If that. Merle was the one who always thought with his dick. It's what always got him in trouble, juvie, prison; though his fists also had somethin to do with that. Daryl had more important things to worry about though. Like workin, before the world went to shit, and huntin, _survivin now. _He ain't lookin to get laid and he definitely ain't lookin to get laid by-

Suddenly, Daryl becomes aware that someone is standing _right _next to him, like feet from him and no one comes over so who the fuck is it? He blinks down at his hands, and since when did this squirrel get half fuckin skinned, and lifts his head to see who is stupid enough to bother him cuz he's _busy_. He swears, if it's that goddamn old man or fuckin Walsh, _demandin _where their food is and shit, he might just stab them.

He's equally surprised and not surprised to see her standing there, all green eyes and awkward smile, fidgeting as she stands in the heat of the sun. Of course it would be her; no one else was that stupid…or ballsy. But what the hell does she want anyway? Daryl doesn't know, and he doesn't fuckin _care, _so he turns back to the squirrel and lets the steel of his knife bite into skin and flesh and blood. "Um hi," she quietly says and he should have known she wasn't going to leave just like that. She's too stubborn, even he knows that and he was only with her for a handful of hours. Daryl's gonna ignore her though. He brought her here and that's where their interaction ended. He wasn't here to _talk _to her, be her fucking fri-

"Look, I just wanted to say thank you."

The words bring him to a halt and he's lookin up at her before he can blink, wonderin what the fuck she's talking about because he hasn't done anything she can thank him for. Hell, he's completely avoided her for the last three days. She's twitchin again but her eyes, green and deep, stay locked on his as she opens her mouth and says, "For bringing me here. I…I would have probably died out there if you hadn't so…thank you."

Ahh. That.

Daryl's got to say…he wasn't expectin her to say thanks. He thought she'd just ignore what he had done; just like how everyone else ignores that fact he's the one goddamn feedin them. It's not like _wanted _her gratitude; he was just surprised that a spoiled brat like her even the word. Daryl realizes he's been silent for a beat too long because the girl is flushing red and shifting her weight from foot to foot, awkward and restless. Like she hates bein here, near him, and can't wait to get away from the _redneck hick _before her. Irritation and something unnamable burns through the hunter and he feels his lip curl in disgust or something very similar. Who's he to prolong her _suffering? _He turns back to his squirrel with a snort.

"Yeah, whatever," he grunts and then he tries to tune her out, erase her, ignore her. It doesn't work for a moment; he can still hear her breathing, hear the chocked noise she makes out of anger; but then he hears her huff, pissed but he doesn't care, and she's spinning away, dirt and leaves crunching beneath her weight and Daryl finds himself lifting his head and watching as she begins to walk away, eyes taking in her rigid spine and almost stomping feet and well…maybe she does have a nice ass-

"Fuck!"

The curse is wrenched out of Daryl as pain lances through his arm, throbbing and sharp, and he's grabbing at his left hand, skin slick with blood as it pulses out of the gash that is now carved into his flesh, a new torrent for each one of his heart beats. Reacting on instinct, Daryl tosses down the knife that caused this, he refuses to think of anything else to blame, glances quickly at the wound and, finding it's not very deep, _just painful as shit, _hethrusts his hand down beside him, yanking up one of his cleaner rags, wrapping his hand with sure and deft movements, and cinches the knot tight enough that the pressure slows the blood flow but not so much that he can't use his limb. He flexes his hand experimentally and findin its moveable, reaches for his buck knife again because now he actually has to get this cleanin and shit done fast so he can go raid Merle's shit and see if there's any alcohol or disinfectant left. He ain't gonna die from some stupid infection durin the zombie apocalypse. Ain't no fuckin way.

He's working faster than usual but he's getting the job done, the movements so familiar it's like goddamn breathing. He keeps his mind on his task, eyes trained down, and slowly, the squirrel before him is skinned, inch by inch and then suddenly _she's _fuckin there again and he nearly cuts his thumb off. Not believin what he _think _he just heard, Daryl snaps his head up, eyes pinnin the girl to where she's standin.

"Whatcha say," he grunts out, wantin her to repeat her words because this bitch didn't just say what he thought she did.

"_The hell's she doin here anyway? I thought she left," _Daryl thinks but she's talkin again and he forces himself to listen.

"I said do you need any help with that? Like with the skinning?"

Now his confusion is down right disbelief and he lets his eyes drag over this city girl's figure, this city girl whose parents paid for whatever she's wanted and who's probably never worked a day in her goddamn life. "Ya know how to clean and skin," he demands and he'll wear a tu-tu and kiss Walsh on his fuckin mouth if she says yes. But nervousness and embarrassment radiates off her, in her eyes and the way she touches her hair and bites her lip and she's shifting in her shoes.

"Well…no," she tells him and Daryl can already feel his lip curling, the mocking dismissive words on his tongue, when she continues. "But I'm a quick learn. If you show me once or twice I'm pretty sure I can pick it up." Her words bring Daryl up short but then his mind turns her words over and suspicion burns through him, hot and dark, because why the hell is this bitch offerin her help? He suspects she's lost some kind of bet with those other assholes or something like that and is now forced to spend time with the _hick. _Well, he doesn't want her pity or any of that shit but he wants to see what lie she'll try to feed him. He demands to know why, voice harsh as he barks why does she wanna help?

Those goddamn green eyes of hers are wide and clear, confusion, then irritation, then…resigned honesty, shinning through them as if they are glass. Daryl waits for her to admit to a bet or something of the like but he isn't expectin her next words. "Cuz you look like you could use a few extra hands," she tells him, pointing to the haul of game near his feet. "Besides, you catch the things. The least someone could do is help clean them."

And Daryl's speechless, a new experience for him, and he's staring at her hard because she's got to be lying. He looks for the flicker of her eyes to the left, the jump of a facial muscle, something, anything, to give away her lie because Daryl _knows _when someone is lying to him; people have done it enough for him to become proficient. But the girl doesn't look away, doesn't flinch as she meets him eye to eye, chin tilted up, eyes and expression laid bare and open to his scrutiny.

And holy fuck…she's…telling the truth. Daryl doesn't know what to say that. She…she really just wants to…help. This just confuses the hunter more but…but maybe…

Before he can even finish his thought, a voice calls out, loud and shrill, and the girl is turning away from him, looking back over her shoulder to where that kid is waving at her, jumping up and down as he grins. He calls out something about Walsh, who's standing next to him looking at Daryl like he's waiting for the hunter to bury the knife in his hand into the girl's back, like he's nothing better than a feral, rabid dog and the younger Dixon scowls at the bastard, rage coiling through him, quick to start as a goddamn forest fire. And then he hears the girl in front of him respond, _she'll be there in a minute, _and Daryl feels the rage burn all the hotter. He's pissed at that goddamn condescending look Walsh is sending him, like Daryl is the shit on his show, pissed at the bitch in front of him for pretendin to goddamn be _nice, _and he's pissed at himself for believing her. The bitch is turning back to him now and the acidic words roll of his tongue, tasting of blood and fury.

"Yer boyfriend's callin. I guess time for slummin's over. Don' wanna keep his highness waitin so why don' ya just run along," he sneers at her and is about to turn back to his task, fuck the bitch and anythin she has to say he's not listenin anymore, but she doesn't give him the opportunity.

"There's no need to be a dickhead Daryl," she says and he literally sees red, _who the fuck does she think she is, she doesn't know him, _but once again she presses forward. "My offer still stands, I'll still help you; I just need a few minutes cuz I promised Carl to show him sword moves."

Daryl's barely processing these words before she's blurting out something else and now he's just struck dumb. "You know, why don't you come watch too? I'm fighting Shane. Might even break his nose," she jokes and when Daryl can only make a vague noise, confused and thrown for such a loop his anger is momentarily displaced, eyes skittering to the people behind her and he can't believe she's…talking to him like this, Audrey smiles at him, small but honest and bright, and says,

"Relax a bit Dixon. Come watch me kick Shane's ass and I'll come back with you to make some mean squirrel stew."

And now Daryl's just completely lost, turned around and knocked over the head, because he's never dealt with something like this before. Daryl knows drinking buddies, loud and drunk men that don't care that he's just as loud and drunk after a day at the shop, who share rowdy comments and talk about nothing of importance and he knows family who he doesn't always want, most of the time wants to get away from but never can. He doesn't know…_friends _though, the word is foreign to him, a different _fuckin _language, but the way Audrey is lookin at him reminds him of the way kids used to look at each other when he was younger and in school, all smiles and laughs and a…_want _to be near each other, something he never knew, bein and havin a friend. It's not like he's some pathetic loser he just doesn't like people and prefers to stay away from them. That they prefer to stay away from him too works just as well. But now he's lookin at Audrey and he doesn't understand because maybe she's not as idiotic as the rest of them, she certainly knew how to survive unlike the other stupid fucks, and maybe she's tolerable cuz no one's ever asked to help, just nagged and demanded and _commanded _like their his boss, and maybe watchin her kick Walsh's ass, which he thinks, is pretty sure as his nose throbs in memory, she can do, could be pretty entertainin, even if he has to stand near those niggers and spics and that goddamn old man.

He's moving before he realizes it, slowly setting down his knife and opening his mouth to tell Audrey, who's smiling like an idiot now, that he doesn't have fuckin time to waste but maybe Walsh's face grindin in the dirt will be worth it before, suddenly, a heavy hand falls on his shoulder and, even as he whips around, he can smell the mixture of sweat and booze that has always been Merle.

"What do we got here lil brother? This bitch givin ya trouble," his brother drawls, eyes locked on Audrey, dark and angry. Merle's words, and his mere presence, are like a douse of cold water and Daryl finds himself stutterin, the last few minutes fadin from his mind.

"M…Merle," he stammers out, scowling to cover up his stumbling words. "Wh…where the fuck ya been?" The older Dixon doesn't look at him as he replies he's been checkin the traps though Daryl can see the dilation of his pupils from here, the sweat beadin on his upper lip, and he wonders how much of which drug his brother has just taken.

Before he can decide though, Audrey's talking again and Daryl turns to face her. "So," she asks, ignoring his brother as she raises a slim eyebrow at him, thumb stuffed into the pockets of her jeans, defensive and uncomfortable now that Merle's standing behind him. He knows that she's not just talkin bout the fight, bout him comin to watch her kick Walsh's ass; she's askin about the skinning, about her helpin, and maybe…maybe somethin more, somethin deeper, somethin between the lines, but Daryl remembers how Merle hasn't shut up about her since she stood up to him yesterday and how all he's done is spew hate and anger about 'that spoilt cunt that needs ta be taught a lesson.' And Daryl knows that if…if he says yes to Audrey…no…no he can't he realizes because Merle would give him so much shit, not to mention be so pissed off at Daryl he might even start a goddamn fight. And no damn bitch was worth that shit. Even if she's lookin as hopeful as she is now, green eyes round and transparent and Daryl sneers, ugly and hateful, before he can reconsider.

"So fuckin what," he spits and watches as Audrey's eyes and face fall. "I ain't got shit to say to ya."

It's silent for a moment and Daryl can feel Merle's grip tighten on his shoulder in approval. He doesn't know why the gesture makes his stomach clench. But Daryl's watchin Audrey now and sees the hurt in her glass like eyes transform into anger, smooth and fluid as water. The hate in her eyes, and in her tone, matches his own and Daryl thinks her face looks ugly all twisted up like that.

"Yeah I can see that," she jeers back at him and the smile that she used to wear is knotted up and twisted and she's almost baring her teeth. Daryl matches the expression but it falters as she sucker punches him with her parting words. "That's probably because between the two of you redneck fucks, you couldn't string a coherent, intelligent, sentence together to save your life. Too much inbreeding I guess." He's taken back by her words but then she's spinnin away from him, from them, and marches away without looking back, striding over to where that kid and Walsh are waitin for her and, even from this distance, Daryl can hear her laugh at something.

Merle growls next to him and lifts his hand only to slap it back down on Daryl's back, jarring him. "Fuckin bitch," Merle grumbles. "I'm gonna fuckin teach her a goddamn lesson soon 'nough. Just ya fuckin wait."

Comin back to himself, Daryl only grunts at his brother's words and turns back to his cleanin, because he doesn't know what to say, what to do, because he has this small little feelin in him like he's lost something but he hasn't. That's stupid. Merle is his family, his kin, and nothin comes before that, nothin is more important. Especially not some dumb broad here at the end of the goddamn world. So, he just picks up a rabbit from beside his feet and tosses it to Merle who's standin beside him takin a drag off one of his precious last cigarettes and grunts at him to get his ugly ass to work. The older Dixon snorts and tells him to fuck off but he sits down next to him anyway, on a worn out stump, and pulls out his own knife. Only a few seconds pass in merciful silence before Merle is off and shootin his mouth again, somethin Daryl is familiar with cuz his brother never shuts the fuck up, spewin shit about how one them niggers had come up to him today and how…well Daryl stopped listenin at that point. He's heard it all before, all his life basically, and Merle doesn't need more than a nod and a grunt here and a complimentin racial slur there to be happy so Daryl just gives him what he wants.

As he works though, he can't help his mind from driftin back to Audrey and her words and her facial expressions and then he gets that irritated and unnamable feeling again and it pisses him off more because it kind of reminds him of disappointment. He's got nothin to be disappointed about. He's got food in front of him, they weren't no walkers around, haven't been for weeks, and he's still alive and he still had kin alive, unlike half of the other fuckers here. He's perfectly fine. But then, goddamn it, he remembers Audrey's smile and her genuine offer to help and fuck why is he even thinkin bout this shit? Dixon men didn't need anybody fuckin else and Daryl is no goddamn exception. He's never needed friends, never _wanted _something as stupid as that shit, he's always had to stand on his own too feet, and he especially doesn't want some wide eyed _kid _followin him around all the time. He hated everyone and everyone hated him; that's how it was before and that's how he likes it.

Fuck Audrey. Merle's right. She's just an uptight, spoilt, prissy, fuckin bitch who needs to shut her mouth before either of the Dixon brothers shut it for her. Daryl bares his teeth slightly, unconsciously, as he thinks he never should have brought back Audrey into camp.

But then, a part of his mind, a small part of a dark corner, asks Daryl, "_When did __**the girl**__ become __**Audrey?" **_and the hunter shoves the thought away, concentrating on the feel of fur and flesh and steel beneath his fingers as the sun bears down upon him and the broken, ended world keeps spinning round and round.

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><p><strong>Alright. That turned out<strong>_** way **_**longer than I intended. O.o Like this is the longest thing I've ever written. But, I hope it wasn't too bad :) **

**I want to thank everyone who reviewed/alerted/favorited so far You guys have made this story so much enjoyable to write! Keep it up guys and leave me some of your thoughts. **

**Till next time!**

**~Shadows**


	8. Scars of the Past

**And here is chapter 8 Sorry it took a while :/ It was partially because I was so busy and partially because I was waiting for some more reviews . But in honor of the premiere I'm posting this tonight Or at least I'll try. -_-" Fanfic is being very temperamental at the moment. **

**Anyways, please review! Seriously guys. I'll just say here that I'd like at least three reviews before I update :/**

**Hope you enjoy and TWD IS BACK! :D**

**Disclaimer: None of TWD characters are mine and **_**The Giver **_**is the property of Lois Lowry. I own nothing and make no profit off of this.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: Scars of the Past<strong>

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><p>"Got any fives?"<p>

"Nah. Go fish kiddo."

Carl huffs and takes a card from the deck. A few seconds passes in silence.

"Got any Jacks?"

A groan fills the air and Carl jerks a card from his hand and tosses it at a grinning Shane. "You're cheating," he pouts, eyes accusing. The former cop schools his face into a mask of innocence and gasps in mock hurt, hand over his heart.

"You callin me a cheater Carl Grimes?"

For a moment, the young boy looks abashed, gaze flickering down to the table, before he lifts his head up to level Shane with a firm glower. "Yes."

Shane bursts out laughing but Glenn, who is sitting around the small table with them, cuts him off. "Carl's right man. You've won the last three hands." Glenn narrows his eyes and points an accusatory finger at the older man. "Something's up."

Shane looks at both of the younger males, sees they're serious, and lifts his hands up in a posture of surrender. His face is one of abject innocence. "I ain't a cheater. I swear," he says solemnly but neither Carl nor Glenn is really paying much attention now. They're both too busy staring at the cards that Shane has accidently flashed them, eyes flickering to their own cards to see what they have to match. I smirk at the strategy they just pulled and turn back to my katana, running the whetstone painstakingly down its length. Clever, guys. Clever.

"Wha-? Hey now! Talk about cheaters," Shane suddenly explodes and I listen as Carl explodes into peels of laughter and the older man slams his hand down onto the table. I peek a glance to see the young boy high five Glenn, both of them wearing shit eating grins. Shane looks a tad bit put out. "Hustlers. The lot of you," he grumbles as he crosses his hands across his chest and then he turns to me, pointing at the two boys who are still snickering. "Ya see what they did to me Audrey?"

I blink up at him from my crossed legged position on the grass, wide-eyed and demure. "I didn't see anything Shane. What happened?"

Shane narrows his eyes at me. "You're in on this too aren't ya?" I smile and tell him I have no idea what he's talking about. The boys go back to their game, albeit a different one, and Shane's made it clear that _he's watchin them. _I shake my head and lean back against the log behind me, letting their words flow over me as I close my eyes.

A week has passed since my spar with Shane and not much has happened. I can't decide if that's a completely a good thing. On one hand, I'm extremely grateful for the almost peaceful quality of the camp. It's almost like we are all just a bunch of friends, ok most of us anyway, and are all out camping for the weekend, telling stories around the campfire and swimming in the quarry; just having a fun, relaxing time. It's quiet here, almost complacent. I haven't seen a walker in days, not since I had ran out of East Point what seems like forever and a day ago. It's like…one can almost forget that the world has ended and lose themselves in the day-to-day happenings; the walkers a distant nightmare not to be touched upon.

And that's what worries me.

I open my eyes at the thought and purse my lips, gaze lazily scanning the quaint scene before me. I watch Shane, Glenn, and Carl play their card games; a few yards away I see Amy and Andrea talking to Dale; I observe Lori and Carol, who are walking past the RV with a few other women; and all around me, I see people go about their day as normally as they can. Everyone looks relaxed, calm, and truthfully, being in this camp is the first time that I have felt relatively safe since that night full of blood and fire in Dalton. But, try as I fucking might, I can't shake the knot of anxiety that seems to be stuck, throbbing, in the back of my throat. The first few days I was able to ignore it, push it away, bury it deep, but recently I'm constantly aware of it. It's almost like a living thing, a tumor, eating away at the good feelings I have found here. It's behind every word, every movement, even breath. Every moment of the day it seems my muscles are tense, my ears unconsciously alert for even the slightest sound, and every breath I take is bated, measured. It's like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop but I'm not even sure if the first one has. It's_ excruciating_, this waiting for something to happen, something to go wrong because I know that… it _has _to. This contentment I feel now cannot last; not here, at the end of the world. I know it can't. I'd be delusional if I let myself believe that. Sounds pessimistic but I'm only being _realistic _because I _know_ the second I let myself believe I'm safe, believe I'm fine, believe nothing can touch me…shit's gonna hit the fan. That's just how life is. My life anyway. Something has to give soon, something has to break, and I'm waiting for it, expecting it, but somehow I know, whatever it is, it's going to catch me off guard.

"_Stop worrying so much sweetheart. You'll give yourself wrinkles."_

I bite my lip at the sudden words in my head and try to go back to sharpening my sword, the knot tightening in my throat and now in my heart. Fuck, if only I could Mom. If only I could. I sit there for an interminable amount of time, concentrating on the rasp of stone one steel, half listening to Shane's instructions, Glenn's comments, and Carl's laughter. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, skating of my chin, and I'm lulled into a automatic, half awake state, my motions mechanical, unconscious, but precise.

"Shane! What are you _doing?" _

Lori's shrill reprimand pulls me out of dazed state and I look up to see her standing next to the table the boys are playing at, hands on her hips and a bucket of plants, I'm assuming edible ones, at her side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shane blink up at her, going for innocent once more but looking as guilty as a fox in a henhouse.

"Uh…hey Lori. I'm just playing some cards with Carl here," Shane says nonchalantly, but I don't miss how he sets his cards down or how Glenn and Carl are slowly trying to do the same. They all look guilty as sin. Lori narrows her eyes at the burly cop and cocks an eyebrow at him, a demanding expression that just screams _I ain't buying your shit and you better tell me the truth __**right **__now. _They are _really _in for it now. I can't help but wonder what they _did._

"Shane Walsh…are you teaching my twelve year old son to _gamble?"_

I blanch at her words, at the tone of a protective mother. **Oh shit. **They are **really **in for it. So glad I had turned down Shane's offer to play.

For once, the man seems a loss for words, struck dumb by Lori's irritation. He stutters for a moment, flailing, drowning, and then all of the sudden Glenn, poor, sweet Glenn tries to join in, help out, and damn if he doesn't make it worse. "N…no! No Lori. We're uh…we were just showing Carl you know…some card games to uh…to teach him some probability skills." Lori raises her eyebrow higher and it seems to force Glenn to talk faster, his face red as a tomato and he really is a horrible liar. I want to just slap a hand over his mouth because I feel this is going to end _horribly._ However, all I do is sit there silently, out of the line of fire, watching this current train wreck unfold. "Yeah," he continues. "You know like 'A card is drawn at random from a deck of cards. Find the probability of getting the King of hearts.' That kind of stuff." The words are so rushed they trip over themselves as they spill from Glenn's mouth. Lori is silent for a few seconds.

"So what are the coins for then," she asks, pointing to the small pile of copper and silver coins glinting condemningly in the middle of the table. "More probability problems?"

I wince as Glenn's horrible lie takes a noise dive into the dirt. Ouch. Cue crash and burn. Lori looks expectantly at the men but when neither Shane nor Glenn can make a statement to the contrary she makes a noise half of triumph and half out of disgust before gesturing to Carl.

"Come on Carl. Glenn's reminded me that you haven't done your homework for the day. Let's get back to the tent and get started. We'll go find Sophia on the way." Her tone is no-nonsense and firm but somehow, Carl finds it in himself to argue.

"But Mom!" he exclaims, voice indignant, the finely tuned tone of a stubborn child, but Lori cuts him off with the finely tuned precision of a mother.

"But nothing mister. Come on now. You need to learn something. Something _stimulating _and productive," she says adamantly when the young boy opens his mouth again, presumably to argue that he _was _learning something. Still, Carl doesn't relent just yet, giving one last attempt to have his way.

"_Mom_," he whines again. "I don't want to do any more math problems or science questions. That's all we ever do." He pouting now and even though I know he's being difficult and _just _a bit whiny, I can't help but think he looks pretty cute with his round blue eyes and jutting bottom lip. What can I say? I'm a sucker for blue eyes.

Lori, however, doesn't seem to share my sentiment. "Well I'm sorry Carl but that's all we have. And you can't just sit around all day doing nothing. Come on now, let's go." She bends to pick up her bucket and half turns to go but Carl won't budge.

"But why do I even have to _do _homework? It's not like there's school anymore," he mutters petulantly before he looks at the man beside him for support. "Right Shane?" T

he previously silent man raises his hand up in a gesture of surrender, face mildly horrified because he _knows _better than to undermine Lori. "Hey bud. She's your mom. You need to listen to what she she's saying. We can hang out after you've done your work all right? I'll even take us down to the quarry for a swim afterwards," he grins thinly. Shane meant the words to be coercing and placating but Carl looks betrayed and slightly mutinous.

"I hate math," he grumbles to the table, one last parting shot, but he gets up anyway and moves towards his mom who's about to usher him away. Perhaps it's the words, or maybe the tone, or maybe even the combination of the two that force an idea to jump to the forefront of my mind; I can't really say. All I know is that one minute I'm watching Lori leading her son away, keeping quiet because it's not my place, and the next I'm talking.

"Hey Lori?"

The tall brunet woman jumps a bit in surprise and it's when she turns to look around in confusion that I realize she hadn't seen me sitting on the ground near the table, obscured by the small table Carl had been sitting at. Flushing slightly, I scrambled to stand, wiping my hands on my jeans as I set my katana on the tree stump I'd been sitting against.

"Audrey," Lori says with a smile, her eyes surprised but warm. "I didn't see you there."

I awkwardly grin back and chew on the inside of my lip, sticking my thumbs in my pocket. "Yeah, um sorry. I was just sharpening my sword, watching the guys play," I tell her lamely, gesturing behind me. She nods, still smiling, but I can see the strain around the edges, the awkward _oh ok but what do you want. _I bite my lip harder. Shit. What do I want? Why did I say anything again? Oh that's right. Carl. Fuck, but that's not my place. She's his mother. I shouldn't have said anything. I sh-

"Audrey?"

I start at my name. "Oh right. Sorry. Uh…" You know what? Fuck it. I've already started. Might as well see this through. Taking a deep breath, I lift my head and give Lori my best apologetic smile. "Sorry Lori. It's just I uh…I overheard you talking to Carl." The older woman slightly narrows her eyes at me.

"Yes. And?" Her tone isn't hostile, not quite. It's more…defensive? Something of that ilk but it still makes me shrink back a bit. I like Lori, a lot, she's a strong woman, nice and loving towards her son and the rest of us but, like Shane, I've learned to not really go against her.

"No, no! I don't mean anything bad by it I just…I heard Carl say…well he doesn't seem…" I huffed out a frustrated breath. This wasn't coming out right. "I just heard how you wanted Carl to learn something more…stimulating but Carl doesn't want to study math and science."

Lori looks more defensive by the second so, like Glenn, I rush to get my words out. "So I was wondering if you thought about maybe teaching him like English?"

For a second, no one says anything and I fidget in the silence. Why had I said anything again?

"English?" Carl finally speaks up, his voice and expression colored in confusion. "But…I know English."

I turn to the young boy and give him a small smile. "I don't mean teach you the spoken language Carl." The boy cocks his head, eyes inquisitive.

"Oh. But then what do you mean?"

He sounds intrigued and I can't help my grin from growing slightly. "I mean like grammar and literature and stuff like that."

Lori has her head cocked much like her son, blue eyes clear but slightly troubled. "Um…n…no I haven't. It's…we've been dealing mostly with math and science," she answers my question and I turn to ask her, or perhaps tell her, that I could help with teach Carl some English but Shane abruptly cuts me off with a derisive snort.

The former cop is leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head and a smirk on his face. "Yeah cuz that stuff's practical. Useful. Teaching him _English_? That would be a waste of time. Like he said, he can speak it. Anything else would just be pointless."

I balk at his callous and mocking words, turning to stare at him with hands on my hips. "Hey! It's _not _a waste of time," I snap at him curtly, my lips twisted into a dark scowl. Shane blinks at my sharp tone in surprise and opens his mouth to say something but I don't give him the chance. "Before all this crap I was going to be an English major. You think I'd waste all my time and money on something _pointless?" _I'm trying to keep my tone a little light, more disapproving than angry but…Shane's words really pissed me off, set an irritating fire through my veins. I can't help it; my reaction is a result of bygone days, a left over wound from years ago. I had spent the better half of my first decade on this earth being told I was useless, a waste of time and space. Hearing someone tell me that a passion of mine was a waste of time…it dredged up all those old feelings again.

Shane seems a little embarrassed and apologetic now, his dark eyes full of remorse as he sets his chair back on four legs and looks as me from across the table. "Ah…look Audrey. I…didn't mean to offend you or anything. It's just it's the end of the world ya know? That stuff…it just doesn't have a purpose now when all we're trying to do is survive. I'm sorry."

I'm standing there glaring at him, clenching and unclenching my fists unconsciously, indignation still pumping hotly through me but, as I stand there, thinking about his words, the fire slowly recedes and soon I just feel like I burnt out husk. Because he has a point. Poetry and literature, writing and reading, everything that I had wanted to do, wanted to be…it _was _useless now. Everyone was just trying to survive, like Shane said, busy wondering where the next meal was coming from and if falling asleep tonight is a safe thing to do. Novels, the books that I have always cleaved to, have no place anymore in the world. They're a thing of the past and who knows if they'll make it into the future. If the human race has one that is. My heart pinches at the thought. I have no past anymore, all of it is ashes and cinders, and now…now it hits me that I have no future, nothing to look forward except a life of hard living, of survival, of just trying to see each sunset and sunrise. No college, no career, no nothing. The revelation leaves me feeling strangely, achingly empty, like something has sucked out all my insides and left me hollow.

Distantly, I wonder at the irony of how something so small as realizing I will never be the writer or teacher I wanted to makes the apocalypse really hit home for me. To be honest…it's kind of pathetic.

"Shane," I hear Lori say and I glance over to see a frown etched on her lips.

The man lifts his hands up. "What? I was being honest." Lori still looks disapproving but I wave off her reprimand, suddenly tired.

"It's alright Lori. I…I'm sorry I said anything. Shane's right," I smile a bit bitterly. "Stuff like that…doesn't help us now. Carl can read and write. That's good enough."

But all of the sudden Lori is shaking her head at me. "No it's not. I want Carl to learn as much as he can. If…if this is ever settled," she says, and no one asks what _this _is. "I don't him to be held back or anything." Shane furrows his brow at her words and I can just see the questions of and comments about _how does she expect this to end_, and _who the hell is going to hold him back if there's no one left_, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut, settling for a brooding silence. "But," Lori continues with a troubled look and I turn my attention back to her. "I don't have any books for this and…I really don't know how I would teach it. I usually just go through the books, teach Carl from that."

Still feeling the blow of Shane's words and my own revelation, I'm hesitant to say anything now but Lori's looking at me almost expectantly and I feel my reluctance slowly give way. "Well," I tell her, tiredly rubbing at the back of my head. "I have some books back in my tent." I think back to the small stash of novels in the bottom of my bag, beneath clothes and other things, and mentally rifle through the few titles before I find an appropriate one. It's amazing that I grabbed that book at all. "I don't have much, just a few novels, but I think I have one that Carl and maybe even Sophia would like. I could uh…teach it to them if…if you'd like."

"O…oh. Well…do you know um…how would teach it to them," Lori asks, sounding hesitant and a little bit doubtful.

I try not to flush in embarrassed nervousness as I lift my head to stare the older woman in the eye, trying to look a little older, a little wiser than I really am. "I was uh…I was thinking I could teach it to them as I had learned it. Going through the chapters, inspecting the plot, trying to find motifs and themes, discern what the author was attempting to get across, how it pertained to real life. I…I read this book when I was around their age and I really liked it. I'd…I'd try to help them understand why I like it so much I guess."

The older woman doesn't say anything for a moment and I fear she just turn down my offer, decide that Shane is right and tell me never mind. If that happens…I think I'll just go lay down in my tent and sleep away the day. "I was in all Advanced Placement English courses if um…if that makes you feel any better," I add awkwardly, waiting for Lori to tell me no.

But she doesn't say no or never mind. Instead, after a few moments, she smiles gently at me and then turns to look down at her son. "What do you say Carl? Would you like taking English lessons from Audrey?"

The little boy, who had been silent for the last few moments, thinks about this for a few seconds before he grins at me toothily. "Yes," he says excitedly. "If she's as good a teacher as a sword fighter, this should be awesome."

I exhale the breath I hadn't been aware I was holding and as I shakily reach over to ruffle Carl's hair I am reminded of three things: why I wanted to become a teacher in the first place, for this innocent enthusiasm and genuine curiosity that all children retain, and of how much Carl has Manny's smile and Irina's sparkling eyes.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later I find myself standing at the same table Shane had been teaching Carl had to gamble on. The older male had vacated himself from the premises about the time I went to go search through my things for the novel I had told Lori about, I think he said something about getting some water from the quarry, but it seems not everyone had left. In fact, there were even more people now.<p>

"What are you guys doing here," I ask Glenn and Amy who are seated side by side at the small, rickety table, talking. "I'm uh…I'm teaching Carl and Sophia here in a minute." The word 'teaching' feels awkward on my tongue when I know it's _me _going to be doing it and I try not to make a face. Amy looks up at me and smiles, wide and bright.

"We know," she says, practically bouncing in her seat. "That's why we're here. We wanna see."

I furrow my brow at her as I slip into the only empty seat. "You want to watch me…read? That's really all I'm doing today. Lori says I should teach them for about half an hour to forty-five minutes. Since I only have one book, I was thinking of just reading a few chapters out loud to them to…get used to it I guess."

Glenn grins at me, sly and mischievous, brown eyes twinkling. "So…we get story time. This is so awesome. Do we get naps too?"

I scowl at him and smack him none to lightly on the arm. "Glenn! Shut up!"

The Asian man grins a shit-eating grin as he tries to ward off my blows. "What about cookies? Can I get some apple juice as well?" He's laughing at me and I can feel my cheeks, and my ears burn red with embarrassment. I dart my hand out and shove him nearly out of his chair.

"Gleeeen! Please shut up. As if I'm not nervous about this already," I growl at him. "I don't need you making fun of me too."

Seeing that I'm actually anxious about my lesson with Carl and Sophia, Glenn's smile slowly fades and he looks abashed. "Sorry Audrey. I didn't mean to make fun of you. I was just…I was just teasing."

Hearing the remorse in his voice, I can't help but forgive him. I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear and sigh. "It's alright," I tell Glenn. "I know you didn't mean it." Ducking my head, I look at my hands, curled protectively around my novel, obscuring it from view, and feel the butterflies in my stomach turn sharp and painful. "I'm just a bit…worried. I don't want to mess this up and look stupid."

Amy reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. I look up to see her smiling gently at me. "You'll do _fine_," she says.

I cast her a tentative smile. "Thanks Amy. It's just I've never really done something like this."

"What? Read out loud?"

"No," I shake my head. "_Teaching_ a novel. I can read them aloud just fine. I used to read all the time to my brother and sis—"

The words suddenly crash into the back of my teeth and I swallow them back down, chocking on serrated glass. All my nervousness and anxiety over Carl and Sophia are abruptly doused, eclipsed by an overwhelming sense of sadness. My surroundings go black and silent around me and it feels like knives in the back of my throat, on my tongue, in my lungs, as the reality of those words crash into me. _"I used to read all the time to my brother and sister." _I **used **to. Used to sit up at night and read Manny and Irina to sleep. Used to lull them to sleep with stories and tales of far away lands and heroes and heroines. But anymore. Because I _can't _anymore. Because I'm not home, not in Dalton, and they…they're…

"Audrey?"

Glenn's concerned voice pulls me from the precipice I'm slipping over and I snap my head up, chest tight and eyes burning, to see him and Amy staring at me in blatant concern and worry. "Audrey are you ok? You look…you just went white as a sheet," he tells me and Amy's nodding away beside him.

"Yeah. You look sick," she asks, half rising out of her seat. "Maybe I should go get Shane. Lori will understand if you don't do-"

"No!"

Amy freezes, half out of her seat, as I nearly shout at her. She blinks at me and I try to lower my voice, fingers curling into the cover of the book in my hands. "No," I repeat, more gently this time. "I'm…I'm fine. Sorry. Just um…got lost in thought." Amy doesn't look very convinced, a heavy frown etched into her delicate and fair features. Perhaps it's because I feel like I can barely breathe; perhaps it's because I feel the Earth moving underneath me, spinning too fast and too slow, spinning me off the world; perhaps it's because I can't fucking lie to save my life and I wear my emotions on my heart and on my face. Whatever it is, I need to calm down; I need to convince Amy I'm fine because if not she'll go get Shane who will bring Lori who will drag the whole freaking camp to come watch me fall apart. Don't need that. Don't _want _that. So I need to calm down. _Calm down. _I try and take a few deep breaths, get my feet back underneath me, but my lungs feel shredded and it hurts, every inhale aches and every exhale burns. I try to dig my nails into my hands but I can barely feel my fingers. I bite my lip, my cheek, my tongue; nothing helps. I still feel like I'm sliding off the edge of the world, their faces flickering before my eyes. Manny's smile, Irina's pout. Their laughter, ringing in my ears. Everything. Every last second. Fuck. _Fuck. _

"_Goddamn it. Audrey, fucking man up. This is pathetic," _I mentally growl at myself. I try harder, put every last effort into my last ditch attempt because I can feel the precipice looming beneath my feet, abysmal and bottomless. Lifting my head, still trying to catch my breath, I instead catch Amy's eyes and I zero in on her face, concentrating on bringing her blurry features into focus.

It takes a moment but slowly, her face becomes more distinct. I can see the soft curve of her chin, the arcs of her cheekbones beneath the flush of her skin. I trace the individual gold hairs in her eyebrows, follow the shape and curve of her eyes, take in the pale blue of them. And slowly, my lungs expand again and I can breathe; I can feel the Earth steady beneath my feet and my nerves connect me to my body once again; my palms sting where my nails cut skin. I take a deep breath, still shaky and a more than a little shallow, and offer my best smile to the girl who's already all the way out of her seat. "Amy," I call out, reaching over to snag her wrist. I do my best to look her in the eye and sell my lie. "I'm _fine. _Really I just…just…reminded myself of something I didn't want to be reminded of." It's the truth and maybe, maybe she'll understand.

And it seems she does because suddenly, comprehension leaps into her eyes and I watch her lips part in a small 'o' of pity. Shit, here we go. I bite my cheek, hard, bracing myself for the questions I don't want to answer, the memories I don't want to remember, but before any words can be said a loud voice cuts through camp.

"Sophia! Come on hurry up! We're gonna be late!"

I break my gaze away from Amy and turn to see Carl and Sophia rounding the side of the RV a few yards away, their mother's trailing behind them. Carl looks excited, animatedly talking to Sophia who nods along to his ramblings. Lori is shaking her head in exasperation but Carol just smiles on fondly. Shit. They're here already. I spin back to Amy and squeeze her wrist lightly before releasing her.

"I'm fine Amy. Just let it go alright?" I ask her.

She furrows her brow, looks like she wants to say something but as Carl and Sophia reach us she nods nonetheless and takes her seat next to Glenn once more. But what else was she going to do? She, like everyone else in this camp, knew there were some things we didn't speak of, the past, the walkers, and no one wanted to upset that balance. Let sleeping dogs lie; out of sight, out of mind and all that shit.

Out of sight, out of mind. "_Ha, if only," _I think as Manny and Irina continue to flicker on the fringes of my thoughts. I try my hardest, though, to push them away, bury them deep, as Carl and Sophia reach me.

"Hi Audrey," Carl grins, blue eyes dancing as he bounces on his feet.

"Hey Carl." I shift slightly to tuck my book into the small of my back, held in place by the belt of my tanto. "And hey there Sophia." The young girl gives me a shy twitch of her lips and a tentative wave of her hand.

"Hello."

I smile slightly as I look at the two of them and clap my hands together, pushing as much enthusiasm as I can in my voice. "Well, are you guys ready?" The two of them nod. "Alright then. Let's sit and I'll tell you what we are going to do today."

Turning in my seat, I shoo Glenn and Amy out of their chairs. They make faces at me but slip to the ground all the same, moving to sit on the log I had leaned against not long ago. In seconds, Carl and Sophia jump into their seats, whispering to each other in excitement. This feels so surreal; me the teacher, instead of the student.

"I don't know whether to feel offended or relieved that Carl is so excited for your lesson," Lori says as she and Carol walk up, their own fold out camping chairs in tow. She furrows her brow and plops her chair on the ground. "It's like pulling teeth when he's with me."

I chuckle, still slightly strained, at her partially put out expression, getting up to help her and Carol with their seats. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. I think that's just because you're his mom. _You _want him to do work and it's a chore. An older kid, like myself, says let's do some work and he thinks it's the coolest thing ever," I tell her before tapping my forehead. "Bit of reverse psychology for you."

Lori looks at me with a mildly impressed expression as she straightens up. "Sounds like you've done this before."

"I've…I've had a lot of practice."

Lori hums and then cocks her head at me. "So what book did you decide on?" I open my mouth to answer her but Carl suddenly cuts me off.

"Yeah," he exclaims behind me, causing me to turn around. He's sitting on the other side of the table, next to Sophia, practically leaning out of his chair. "Is it something with superheroes? Or…or aliens? Or, or what about-?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I laugh, holding up my hands to slow him down. "Hold your horses there. If you wait a second, I'll tell ya. Patience is a virtue Carl." The young boy looks slightly embarrassed but continues to grin at me over the table. Rolling my eyes playfully, I beckon Lori, Carol, Glenn and Amy a bit closer as I take my seat across from the kids. "Ok," I begin after everyone has settled. "Fair warning, I've never done this before so we're just going to play this by ear and see how it goes yeah?"

Everyone nods, even Glenn and Amy, and I then turn to the mothers. "And if you guys have any input or suggestions, even criticisms, be free to speak up. Again, I don't really…I'm new at this."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," Carol says gently and I feel slightly warmed by her confidence.

"Thank you," I respond with a smile.

"Now Carl, Sophia, are you ready for me to reveal the literary delight that I have chosen to grace you with?" I ask them this question in an overly dramatic voice, dropping my volume to a secretive whisper. It's a little corny but I'm trying to get them pumped because, the sad thing is, I really kind of am. Plus, this will be a lot more fun if the two of them saw this as some sort of game or fun activity than actual schoolwork. It seems my diabolical plan has worked because the two of them nod like bobble heads. "Can I have a drum roll?" Carl giggles but lightly taps out a beat on the tabletop. Reaching behind me, I grasp the corner of the book and, after a suspense filled moment, pull it out with a flourish. The kids track my movements with awe filled eyes, the adults with amused expressions. "Da da da dum! I give you, _The Giver _by Lois Lowry," I exclaim.

Silence meets my enthusiastic declaration and Carl blinks at me, mirrored by Sophia. "The what?" he asks.

I blink back at him slowly. Did he not hear me? "The Giver," I repeat, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world because…to me it is. "The children's novel."

Carl purses his lips. "I've never heard of it," he says and Sophia adds on a similar response. I frown at them, what was wrong with schools nowadays, but then Glenn and Amy speak up.

"Same here," Amy says and Glenn echoes, "Is it a famous novel?"

I turn and gape at the pair of them. Ok, Carl and Sophia I can possibly understand, they are still young, their schools might not have covered it yet. But Amy and Glenn? Come on now! "The _Giver," _I say with emphasis. "Come on…you've had to have read it."

Glenn shakes his head. "Not at all."

Feeling a vague horror rise in me, I turn to Lori and Carol, who sit beside their respective children. "Guys?"

Lori gives me a sympathetic grimace. "Sorry Audrey. I'm with them."

"Me too," Carol says.

Balking at all six of them, I fall back in my chair with a muffled thump, shock evident on my face. "I can't believe ya'll are serious. This is just…upsetting. _The Giver_ was like one of my favorite books as a child. Still is one in fact." As if that wasn't obvious enough.

"What's it about? " Carl asks, curiosity clear in his voice. Shaking my head, I huff out an exhale, blowing my long bangs out of my eyes as I sit up.

"Well, since you've never heard of it…it's a bit difficult to explain." Picking up _The Giver, _I stand it upright so the cover faced Carl and Sophia. Their eyes, as well as the rest of my audience's, zero in on the well worn paper back and I think about what they are seeing, trying to think of a way to introduce them to the novel. I think of the old man on the front, the Giver; think of his long beard and the grooves of the ages and memories that he had endured that are now carved into his features. An idea comes to me and I begin to talk.

"It...it's a story about history I guess," I start. Carl makes a face at that, part disappointment, and part disgust, and I laugh. "Don't get a head of me Carl; I'm not done." Lori nudges her son and fixes him with a stern look but I continue before she can reprimand him. "As I was saying, it's a story about history but it's also a lot more than that. The story centers around a boy named Jonas. He's about your age Sophia, just turning twelve." The little girl sits up a little straighter at that, her interest piqued. "However…Jonas lives in a world much different than ours. He-"

"He lives on a different planet?" Carl interrupts, blinking up at me. "So…he's an alien?" I chuckle and shake my head.

"Not quite. He lives on planet Earth, he's _human, _but…the way the world works is different. Like his cities and government are structured oddly. The people in charge in the novel try to make the world perfect but, in the end, they make it…worse in a way."

Sophia slowly raises her hand and I smile gently at her. She's such a sweet little girl. "You don't have to raise your and Sophia. When you want to talk just go ahead." She blushes slightly at my words and lowers her hand.

"Sorry," she says. "But um…how is the world worse? Does…does everyone…die?" Her question is so quiet, a mere whisper, but it is so blunt, so straightforward, that everyone goes still, frozen by her words and, more significantly, their meaning.

_Does everyone die? _Like in our world?

I bite my lip and refrain myself from slamming my face into the rickety table beneath me. Shit. Perhaps this wasn't the best choice in reading material. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Maybe I should just use another book. I have that book of poetry. That seems like a better choice now. But my mind is torn because _The Giver _is a classic and hiding away from anything and everything that reminds us of our situation won't always work. Maybe if we do accept it, piece by piece, beginning with the small things like this, we'll learn to accept our fate. Whatever it may be.

It's doubtful, very doubtful because _**I **_can't even face our reality, but hey that's me, ever the optimist.

Returning to Sophia's question, I shake my head. "N…no," I tell her. "Some people do but their world has changed so much, the people of the book don't see it as death. They don't really _know_ death. Society…um the people in charge, have taken that part out of their lives for the most part."

"So it's a sad book?" Amy is staring at me with misty eyes and sounds vaguely upset, as if saying _like we need any more sadness _and crap have I ruined this before I've even really started?

"Um…no, not really. It…has sad parts but so does every good novel. This story is more…it's more of a book about growing up." I'm trying to save this Titanic but everyone looks kind of skeptical, Lori and Carol even look a little distraught, of my reading choice now and shit, I really have fucked this up. I groan under my breath and rank a hand through my knotted and uneven hair.

"Look," I say, turning to look at everyone in turn, pleading for them to listen, to give me one more chance. How had this gone downhill so fast? "I know it sounds strange but it really is good. Jonas, the main character, has to learn to grow up, to think for himself, to distance himself from everything he has ever known in order to…well in order to survive in the end. It's hard for him, very hard, he's only a young kid, but he's able to grow and become stronger, more independent, because of it."

No one says anything for a moment and I have a split second to wish like hell that I had never said anything about this book in the first place…when Carl asks, "Does he save people?"

The question is so odd, so incongruent for the moment that I answer without hesitating. "Yes. He tries to save his family and friends and he ends up rescuing a baby in the end."

Carl has a contemplative look on his face and when he speaks up it's quiet and hushed, as if he's embarrassed to ask the question or scared to hear my reply. "Do…do you think I could be like him?" I'm taken slightly aback by his inquiry but then, when I give it some thought, I am amazed at the empathetic connection that Carl has already found in this book. Just like Jonas, his world has been flipped on its head, crashed and burned, and just like Jonas…he has to learn how to survive in this brave new world. We haven't even started reading it but already…Carl has learned something. I try not to feel idiotically proud.

"I think you already are," I tell Carl with a smile and he practically beams. "As are you Sophia," I say to the girl sitting next to him and she looks at me with big, unbelieving eyes. "What? You don't believe me?"

Sophia blushes and minutely shakes her head, toying with a butterfly barrette in her hair. "N…not to be rude A…Audrey but…I don't think I could be as brave as Jonas." Something in her voice, something small and fragile and vulnerable, has my heart constricting in sadness. This little girl…reminds me a bit of myself when I was younger; reminds me of a child Audrey who was insecure and timid before she learned being like that only lead to bruises and broken bones. Leaning slightly across the table, and setting down the book, I put my hand on Sophia's and squeeze gently, looking into her pale colored eyes.

"I think you could be. Very much. But," I say. "Don't take my word for it. Why don't you see for yourself? I'm sure when we start reading you'll see a lot of yourself in Jonas and a lot of him in you."

Sophia bites her lip but then nods. "Ok."Carol looks at me with gratitude as I draw back into my seat and I give her a responding smile before picking up _The Giver _and flipping back the well-worn pages to Chapter 1.

"Alright so after that slight detour, is everyone ok with me getting this show on the road," I ask and now everyone is smiling at me, the oppressive atmosphere from moments before lifted by Carl's insightful and endearing comment. As I lift the book closer to my face, I look at the two children before me and I'm suddenly hit with the realization that…however small it is, if it even exists anymore, I am teaching a part of the next generation. In all the turmoil, in the roller coaster that I have perpetually been on since the beginning of the end of the world, I never expected this to happen. It seems that silver lining crap really depended on perspective.

An impatient noise, courtesy of one Carl Grimes, pulls me from my introspection. "Alright, alright, I'm going. But, just so you know, this isn't just story time," I tell him with narrowed eyes. I don't think I've pulled off the stern teacher look quite yet because Carl continues to grin at me. "I'll read the first few chapters but I'll stop every so often to ask questions. Also, as we get further into the book, you two will read out loud instead understood?"

"Yes, Miss Bennet. Now can we please get on with the story," Glenn groans out beside me and I shoot him a playful glare before consenting. Clearing my throat, and trying to quell the nerves in my gut, I settle my gaze on the familiar words; almost immediately falling into the webs they weave, lost and set adrift on the sea of the story.

"_It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened."_

I suppress a grin as my mouth continues to speak. This, when everything else I once had is now gone, feels like coming home.

* * *

><p>Everything goes really well after I finally get the ball rolling. I get through the whole first chapter in about ten, fifteen minutes. Even though nothing of importance has happened in the first few pages, Carl and Sophia seem to be enjoying themselves. They are full of questions and comments, curious and bright, as all children are.<p>

"Why does Jonas get in trouble for teasing his friend? Is released a bad word," Carl, asks, interrupting me as I get to page 3.

I wrinkle my nose at him playfully and tell him to just wait and that he'll learn everything eventually. He pouts slightly but then he's grinning as I start up again. I don't get another paragraph, though, before Sophia is asking about why Jonas' friend Asher is forced to apologize to the class. Some people would find all these interruptions irritating but I can't keep the stupid, idiotic, grin off my face as I discuss the novel with Carl and Sophia. Without giving too much away, of course.

Funnily enough, even, Glenn and Amy are interested, adding in comments here and there, and Lori and Carol are intrigued, as well as grateful that their children are learning something, and heaven forbid, having some fun while doing so. This is going a lot better than I had anticipated and I, for one, am having a great time.

I'm halfway through the second chapter, however, my mind half formulating some kind of discussion questions to give to the kids afterwards, when everything goes straight to hell in a nicely wrapped hand basket. I don't even see it coming; just obliviously continue with the lesson. "_Rules were very hard to change," _I read, my voice rising and falling in an easy cadence. Mom always said I had a lovely reading voice._ "Sometimes, if it was a very important rule unlike the one governing the age for bicycles it would have to go, eventually, to the-"_

And then I crash headlong into the ground and burn.

"What the _hell _is goin on over here?

My voice screeches to a halt, cut off and chocking as the irate words vibrate through the air. I jerk my head up in confusion, about to open my mouth to ask what's going on but suddenly, someone gasps and I feel more than see everyone go tense around me, like a wire pulled taunt. I have to blink in the mid-day glare but my vision clears to see Ed Peletier, Carol's husband, standing a few feet away from the table we are all situated around, a cigarette burning angrily between his lips. He's dressed in an old wife-beater, a dirty button up thrown over the top, and a seemingly empty beer bottle hangs from the fingers of his right hand. I'm just thinking where the hell he got that beer, and what the hell he's doing _here,_ when he speaks up again.

"I said," he growls out again, his glassy eyes glaring at us menacingly. "What the _hell _is goin on here?"

Silence meets his inquiry and I'm…bewildered. I haven't really spoken to Carol's husband much, at all that is, and was kind of under the impression that perhaps he was mute. But something about him, something in his stance or in his voice, sets me automatically on edge, my previous contentment evaporating away like water under the Georgia sun. I feel my muscles go tense and my fingers curl around the edges of _The Giver. _What is going on here?

"E…Ed," Carol suddenly speaks up and my gaze snaps back to her, taking in her pale face and shaking words. "I…we…Sophia's doing some school work. I…I thought I told you…"

Ed takes a livid drag off of his cigarette before flicking it angrily towards us. Lori automatically shifts to shield her son and I watch as Carol flinches and Sophia suddenly sinks into her seat. The glowing cherry bounces on the table, rolling to a rest inches from my hands on the table. The silence of our table screams. "And I thought I told _you _I had no more goddamn clothes. You should be doing something useful instead of wasting time here."

Carol ducks her head, I can't see her face anymore, and folds her hands in her lap. "O…ok. I'm sorry," she whispers and a flare of recognition goes off in the back of my mind as I take in her posture and suddenly I know, with all certainty, just what is going on here.

But nobody says anything and then Ed scowls angrily at Carol and suddenly lunges forward, before any of us can even blink, and grabs her wrist, bodily jerking her out of her seat. I can hardly stifle a gasp and a flinch as Carol just nearly whimpers as her husband hauls her to him. What the fuck? _What the fuck?_

"Come on. We're going back to the tent and you _will _wash my damn clothes ya hear? I'm tired of waiting for your stupid ass to finally get something right. Sophia, you too. Come on now."

I'm in shock, complete and utter astonishment, as Sophia, with her chin tucked firmly into her chest, slowly begins to slink of her seat. This…this isn't happening. Can't be. I was just reading…we were just having fun. How the _fuck _can this be going on right before my eyes? I turn to Lori, practically begging for an answer, wondering when my life became such a roller coaster of ups and downs, but she has her gaze glued to the tabletop, a stiff arm wrapped around her son, who's also looking down. They were…ignoring this. Like it wasn't happening. Like it was _all_ _right. _I swing my gaze frantically over to Glenn and Amy but Glenn has his hat in his hands and is playing with the worn brim of it. Amy is the only one to meet my eyes but her own are wide and sad and when I blink at her, tilting my chin at the Peletier's, she just shakes her head at me, as if to say _It's not our place. Leave it alone. _

_It's not our place. Leave it alone. _

That's just what everyone said about _my _situation years ago and I remembered praying every night that someone, someday, would finally hear me screaming on the inside and save me from my living hell. No one came for me until it was too late; I was already damaged. I think of Sophia, of her inquisitive eyes and her sweet demeanor. How can I sit back and let this happen to someone else?

I can't.

And if someone else isn't going to say anything, I'll be fucking damned if I am silent too.

Before I know it, I'm shoving my chair back, the flimsy thing clattering loudly to the floor. Everyone snaps their head up to look at me, eyes wide, mouth agape, but I ignore _them. _There's a dull roar in my ears and I'm focused on Ed Peletier who is freezing mid step, turning his head to glare at me in challenge…and a little bit of surprise. I don't know what I'm going to say, what I'm going to do, I haven't thought this through, but I can't stand by and watch as Carol's skin is bruising before my eyes.

"Ya got something to say," Ed snarls at me and I watch as he tightens his grip on Carol's wrist, causing her to whimper again.

"_Ya wanna say something ya little bitch," _another voice suddenly echoes in my head, a memory, a nightmare. White-hot rage floods, abrupt as a bolt of lightning, and I open my mouth to tell this son of a bitch that _yeah I had something to fucking say alright _but someone cuts me off.

"Audrey," Lori hisses under her breath, eyes are wide but commanding as they stare up at me. "Sit _down." _I purse my lips at her in defiance but, again, I am interrupted mid thought.

"No. She got something to say, she should say it! Well, what the hell ya have to say to me," Ed barks at me and, for someone who as never conversed with me before, he is inexplicitly hostile and hate filled. Makes two of us then.

But before I can speak my mind, Carol catches my eye. "_Please," _she mouths, eyes bright and full of tears. "_Don't." _

And that just suddenly pisses me off more; that this wonderfully kind woman, with her gentle heart and genial words, is abused by this motherfucker in front of me so much…she doesn't even fight it any more. There are fucking _dead _people walking around and still, there are monsters like _this _is the fucking world. Bile rises in the back of my throat, chocking me, but I swallow it down, along with my words because if Carol doesn't want me to say anything…I can't help her. I grit my teeth, listening to the grinding noise over the roar of blood, and reluctantly sit back down. Ed snorts at me, an ugly ass expression, sneering as he jerks Carol again.

"That's what I thought. Now, all of ya'll stay the fuck out of my business or next time we'll be havin more than words." With that, he spins around and stalks off back towards his tent, Sophia and Carol reluctantly in tow.

It's silent in the following moments, I can hear the buzzing of the cicadas, the murmuring conversations of the others around camp, and it just makes me angrier and angrier until I'm nearly shaking. My teeth are still clenched and my fingers are curling into fists. There's a stinging sensation in the heart of one of my palms but I pay it no mind, still reeling from what had just occurred. After a few moments, someone touches my hand suddenly and I jerk away, my palm falling open and the cherry of Ed Peletier's spent cigarette rolling back onto the table. I stare at small red smear of burnt skin on my palm in disinterest before someone touches me again and calls my name. Lori is looking at me in concern and worry.

"Are…are you all right?" she asks me quietly and I see Glenn, Amy, and Carl standing behind her, crowding around me. I shake my head at her words and she must think I'm answering negatively to her question because then she's asking me if I would like water or to lie down or-

"I want to know why you didn't say anything."

I say the words quietly but with conviction and I'm looking into Lori's eye as I say them. She blinks back at me in silence. "Why didn't you say anything," I repeat, a little louder, and this time, I swing my eyes to stare at Glenn and Amy too. "How could you just sit by and let him…let him hurt Carol like that? Does this happen often?"

Their silence answers my question.

"It wasn't…our place," Lori says and god I _fucking _hate those words. I jerk away from Lori, staggering upright, and I'm glaring at her with a combination of a sneer and a scowl. All the good feelings from moments before are gone, _The Giver_ and our lesson is some distant fucking dream, and in this moment…I almost hate her.

"So just because it's not our "place", we're just going to let him treat Carol like shit?" Lori glares back at me slightly but I hardly care.

"Audrey, please watch your language around my son." Her words are cold but they stoke the fire in my veins all the same.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mrs. Grimes. I forgot that cursing was a higher offense that domestic abuse. Have to teach Carl his priorities right?" Lori looks taken aback by my words and I hear Amy gasp and I know I should just shut the fuck up but I can't, _I can't, _because this is hitting too close to home too quickly and I suddenly realize I need to get out of here before I say more shit that I regret.

Not looking at Lori or her son, avoiding the gazes of Glenn and Amy, I reach down beside the table and snatch up my katana, buckling it on in a few swift moves. I don't know where I'm going but anywhere is better than here. As I move around the table though, an idea occurs to me, a stupid one, really idiotic, but in my rage, I'm not processing things correctly and before I stalk off, I'm lifting the hem of my shirt up, exposing the left side of my rib cage. The open air feels good on my over heated skin but there's a spot, a winding strip of skin, that I can't feel a thing on, not even the blow of the wind. Lori makes a chocking noise, sick and revolted, similar sounds coming out of Glenn and Amy, as she catches sight of the thick, jagged scar that runs across my side, reaching from just under my bust to the bone of my hip. I feel some kind of sick, detached, satisfaction as she blanches of all color.

"You say it's not your place," I say quietly but the fury is evident in my words. "But if everyone says that, whose place is it to stop thing's like this from happening?"

Lori doesn't seem to have an immediate answer, she's still staring at me with bulging eyes, and I don't wait for one. Dropping my shirt back into place, I spin on heel and walk away, almost feeling the bite of the blade against my side even twelve years later.

* * *

><p>"Audrey Bennett you have to be the world's largest fucking idiot."<p>

My reflection stares back at me blankly as if to say _you're just now realizing this? _I groan and toss a rock into the water, scattering the image of my face and sending ripples stretching across the quarry. I can't believe I had done that. Ok, well first of all, I can't believe I had seen what I had seen. I've been here for over a week but I never suspected that Carol, sweet fucking Carol and Sophia, were living with…_that. _But thinking about it now…it was the most obvious goddamn thing in the world. Carol's demeanor, the way she acted around everyone, the bruise I had thought I'd seen under the hem of her shirt but wrote it off as just a smudge of dirt. Fuck, have I mentioned _I'm the world's biggest moron?_

And then what I said to Lori; what I _showed _to Lori. Christ. I think that just takes the fucking cake. If this were an Olympic sport I'd take the gold, silver, _and _bronze. Another wretched groan tears itself out of my throat and I drop my head to my knees. Maybe if I just curl up into a ball of patheticness the world will finally take pity on me and just swallow me fucking whole. After a few minutes of still silence though, where nothing happens except the fact that I keep breathing, it doesn't seem that the world gives a fuck about me either way. Tch. Well what's fucking new?

Sighing, I lift my head off my knees and stare out across the quarry. The blue water stretches out before me, wide and tranquil, and as I sit here on this boulder, on the edge of the lake, I can't help but feel that I'm a lot like this little watering hole. Calm and placid one moment but, with a subtle change, a subtle shift, I'm cast into ripples. "_Well…I'm mostly like this quarry," _I think as I stare back down at my reflection. Unlike it, I don't go back to placid very easily. My ripples go on for miles.

Speaking off ripples, I uncurl from my fetal position and reach for the worn hem of my shirt, peeling it back like a poisonous snake is waiting underneath. Well, the ropy six inches strip of skin that meets my gaze kind of resembles one to be honest. Wincing at the sight, I tentatively trace the tips of my fingers down the length of my scar, following the dips and grooves, the ripples, as they traveled across my skin. _Shit._ I really shouldn't have shown them this. That…there are no words for how fucking _stupid _that was. I could live with my challenge of Ed, that **fucker, that trash that didn't serve to **_**live,**_deserved someone to step the fuck up to him. I could even handle snapping at Lori. I was emotionally distraught, my "innocent" eyes seeing something like that; she'd understand. But my scar…my fucking _**scar? **_I must have been high. I must have been having a stroke. Because what the hell _else _could explain me doing that? No one had seen that scar outside of my family in years and outside of my family only a handful of doctors, my caseworker, and a judge had _ever _seen it. And now I'm just flashing it to complete strangers in bursts of blind anger. Perfect. Growling to myself, I cover the evidence of my past again and lean back on my rocky perch, feeling the rough surface dig into the skin of my elbows. I'm still angry, at myself, at fucking Ed Peletier, at the world, but…again Sensei comes back to bite me in the ass, whipping me into shape like all those years ago. "_Anger helps nothing, Audrey. It only clouds your mind," _his voice says, reverberating through my mind. I want to ignore him; I have had a trying day all right? I think I deserve to be angry for just a fucking little bit. And for a while, I _do ignore him, _push him aside, just wallow in my self-pity, but like always, Sensei is right. Staying angry just wastes my energy and my time.

Sighing, I glare tiredly down at katana and tanto at my side. "Why do you always have to be right," I mumble to no one. "It's a really irritating quality Sensei." Mostly because him always being right means I'm always wrong. Story of my life there.

I sit there for a while longer, just listening to the cicadas in the trees and the lapping of the water on the shore. The leaves are green here, the water crystal blue, and damn if it isn't peaceful. I could stay here all damn day, just ignoring the fucked up world around me…but I know that that's really not an option. It's only mid afternoon, hours before sunset, but I know that eventually I'll have to go back to camp, have to face the consequences of my actions. I huff out a breath and close my eyes, letting my skin soak up the baking Georgia sunlight. Well…needless to say…I don't think I'm having another English lesson with Carl and Sophia like **ever.** I shot myself in the foot on that one. More like both feet actually. Add that to the fact that I'm almost a hundred percent positive that the entire camp knows about my horrendous looking scar, and will probably be waiting for the story behind it…this day can't possibly get any worse.

And then, all of the sudden, just to prove me wrong **again, **a shuffle, the sound of feet on stone, sounds behind me, and my muscles going rigid in fear. Not even breathing, my fingers inch out to grab the hilt of my katana, ready to yank it from its sheath before a muttered "Aw fuck," reaches my ears. Relaxing, only slightly now that I know it's not a walker, I spare just enough time to stare at the sky and think "_Really?" _before I turn around to see who finally had come to find me.

…you know…if I haven't said it before, I think now is the time to say it. The universe really is a _fucking_ bitch.

Daryl Dixon seems to be thinking the exact same thing because he's looking at me with this curl to his lip like he's just come across something disgusting. Joy. My day just got so much fucking better. "The fuck you doin down here," he snarls at me, the first words he's said to me in a week, shifting what I realize is a new pair of clothes in his hands. I blink. Oh. So he was coming here to shower? Yeah, well he can fuck off.

"Last time I checked, you weren't my fuckin father Dixon. I can go wherever the fuck I want," I snap back at him, meeting him glare for glare. He rolls his blue eyes at my caustic comment, and bears his teeth at me. I sneer back at him in response and then turn back to face the lake, waiting on his departure, which is inevitable since he can't stand to be within fifteen feet of me. Feeling's mutual.

In the past week, since Daryl said that shit to me in front of Merle, rejected my metaphorical hand of…not friendship, maybe mutual truce, I hadn't been within earshot of the asshole. Didn't want to be. He'd made sure of that after all. I'd made sure to bypass and skirt the Dixon part of camp; I'd made sure to stay out of the woods, which is their domain. I'd taken every damn precaution. Today, though, it seems the world's not done screwing me over but right now, I especially don't want to deal with Daryl freaking Douchebag. I just don't have the fucking patience.

It's quiet for a moment but I know he's still here, I can hear him breathing behind me. God, why won't he just leave already? I'm about _this_ close to just turning around and telling him to fuck off but then he's cursing me out under his breath and I hear him move. I feel triumphant for a moment, yeah that's right asshole you leave, but then I realize he's not moving away from me, back into the woods and up the fucking hill. His footsteps are closer, his breathing nearer and what the fuck he's moving _towards me?_

Whirling around, I heighten my glare as I watch Daryl stalk past me, walking about five feet away from the boulder I'm sitting on before he drops his clothes at his feet. I'm confused as well as angry and I scowl at his profile.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He was _supposed _to leave! Daryl casts me a sidelong glower, his blue eyes piercing me, before he's…_taking off his shirt? What the fuck! _

"The hell does it look like I'm fuckin doin. Came down here to bathe," he says as he flings his sleeveless shirt to the ground. I continue to gape at him, my cheeks burning red as I catch sight of his chest, the skin streaked with dirt and corded with muscle and holy shit is that a _tattoo? _Shaking my head, I try to glower at him but I'm pretty sure I fall short.

"But _I'm here." _My voice is incredulous, abnormally high pitched because this wasn't fucking happening, Daryl Dixon is not stripping in front of be because I can't have this many crazy ass mother fucking things happen to me in one day. But apparently I fucking can, because Daryl just shrugs at me and bends over to untie the laces of his boots.

"So what? I ain't walkin all the way back without bathin cuz of fuckin modesty. Ya don' like it? Fuckin leave."

I continue to gawk at him, watching as he toed off his boots, my flush spreading to the back off my neck and up to my ears. "I was fuckin here first. You fuckin leave Dixon," I snap back at him, trying to disguise my embarrassment with irritation. I don't think my childish comment intimidated him much because Daryl just snorts at me and reaches for the button of his jeans. He flicks it open with a jerk of his wrist.

"Make me bitch."

I'm about to fucking say something, like what the hell did he just _call me,_ but then he's tugging down his zipper and I balk before spinning around to face the opposite way, every inch of my skin flared red. The next few seconds are silent save the sounds of rustling clothing as Daryl drops his jeans and the splash of water as he walks into the lake. He doesn't say another fucking word but he's _right fucking there, _**bathing, **and fuck it, I'd rather deal with Lori's questions back at camp.

Cursing under my breath, I reach blindly behind me to grab my katana, shifting to jump down unto the ground and hightail it back to camp but then a thought occurs to me. I was here first; Daryl is the one that walked up on me. Why the hell should I leave? This isn't his fucking planet and I shouldn't have to bow down to some redneck asshole. Clenching my jaw, I bring my legs back unto the boulder and sit Indian style, glaring out over the quarry. I'm not leaving. Daryl has a problem with it than _he _can leave.

My cheeks are still throbbing red but I do my best to ignore it and _ignore him. _Doesn't really work that well though. I'm still fidgeting, plucking at the loose threads on the end of my jeans, twirling them around my fingers as I _listen to him fucking bathe. _I wrinkle my nose at the thought. I feel like a damn pervert but…damn it I was here first! Besides, he doesn't seem to mind, the asshole. He hasn't even said anyth-

"Ya just gonna sit there? Hopin for a glimpse _kid_?"

I jump at the sudden, biting, words, he wasn't supposed to talk damn it, but then I finally process them. Oh that son of a _bitch! _Indignation flaring in me, I almost spin around but then I remember why the hell he just said that to me and I pause mid turn. Gritting my teeth, I glare down into my lap, making sure to keep my head ducked so I don't catch a glimpse of fucking anything I really don't want to.

"Fuck you Dixon," I bite out, feeling all the pent up emotion from today come rushing back to the surface. God, this fucker just pushes all my buttons! The Lord is really testing me. I just wanted a little time alone for Christ's sake! "The only reason I'm still here is because despite what you and your dickface brother think, the world doesn't revolve around the name Dixon. I'll sit wherever the hell I want to sit alright?"

Daryl grunts behind me and then I hear him make a disgusted noise before he hacks and spits. "Merle was right," he drawls out, smooth and cool. "Yer just some uppity, spoilt, city girl who doesn't know how to shut her goddamn big mouth. Maybe he was right about me leavin ya in the woods too."

By the time his words reach me, I don't even hesitate before I'm whirling around, barbs on my tongue. In the back of my head, I have just enough sense left to hope the water covers at least _something. _I am just so **fed up with him. **"God, what the _fuck _is your problem with me?" I shout at Daryl, nearly shaking with all the emotion I am feeling. "Since I fucking met you, you've been nothing but a grade A fuckin dick."

The hunter is waist deep in the lake, thank God, but he's frozen solid by my words, a bar of soap in one hand, still dripping water. I try not to look at his now clean, but no less muscled, chest or his flat abdomen; I keep my glare focused on his face and his wide blue eyes. "So what is it huh? Huh _Daryl? _Is because I'm from a city and not some backwater, hillbilly town like you? Is it because I broke your nose? Is it just because _Merle _said I'm a bitch that you hate me? What is it? Just fucking tell me what because I'm tired of you going for my throat and not knowing fuckin why. Solve this mystery for me will ya?"

I'm panting by the end of my tirade, my chest heaving with the exertion. But damn…did that feel good. I'd been wanting to say that shit for over a week now. Daryl stares at me for a moment, seemingly in shock, and his expression, for once, isn't pissed or completely closed off. It's open and gaping and oh wait never mind. There's the anger. He scowls at me, thick and dark, and looks like he wants to take a step forward, in fact he takes half of one, but then he feels the water lap at his waist, _right _on his prominent hipbones, and he thinks better of it.

"My problem," he grinds out, tossing his bar of soap back up onto the shore, the white bar skittering in the dirt. "Is the fact that yer just some entitled asshole like the rest of them up there." Her jerks an arm up, stabbing a finger up the hill. "Always whinin bout how the world isn't fair or how hungry you are. Demandin where yer food is. I ain't yer goddamn personal chef!"

And there. It's out in the open; all that shit that's been festering between us. And _**oh hell no.**_

I stare open mouthed at him for a second but then I'm spinning all the way around, completely facing his direction, and stabbing a finger at _him. _"I offered to _help you, _you stupid son of a bitch! I came to you, I _thanked you, _and I tried to make friends. I offered to help you with the food, the skinning, anything else you needed a hand with, and what the fuck did you do? You threw it back in my face the _second _good ole Merle showed up."

"Don't talk bout my brother," Daryl snarls at me but I ignore him.

"You say you're pissed because I'm entitled and _ungrateful? _I call fucking bullshit because I tried. _I, me, Audrey, _**offered** and I don't see anyone else stepping up to help your ass. Shit, I guess I see why now," I say disgustedly at him, my lip curled in emotion.

Daryl, amazingly, is stumped at my outburst. I watch as his jaw works, clenching and unclenching, his fists following mimicking the movement. I raise an eyebrow at him, challenging him to prove me wrong but he can't; he has no words because he _knows _I am right. When that realization hits him, he scowls at me again.

"Tch," he grunts and then he looks away, out across the water. The silent between us stretches sharp and precarious, painful. I purse my lips at the younger Dixon brother and debate whether on just leaving now. I've made my point and me leaving now would be on my own terms. But…something Daryl said, about him not being our personal chef, nags at me. Like a splinter, a thorn in my side. Because he's right, despite the other shit he said. It's unfair that we all just _expect _him to bring the food back. He doesn't really owe us shit. And it seems camp has been taken advantage of him for a while now, if the bitterness in his words is any indication. Still scowling, I look back at him and feel the irritation that he's caused me flare once more. If I were most people, I would just walk away. The problem with most people is…they have no morals and I seem to have a surplus. Crap. Shaking my head, I open my mouth to say something, but I draw up short again as an idea occurs to me.

I've already tried this once. Did I forget what happened last time? I'm just wasting my breath. "_Just walk away Audrey. Just freaking walk away." _And I try. I actually swing my legs over the boulder and make to jump to the ground. But right before I do, I glance back over my shoulder. Daryl is still standing there, in the middle of the water, waist deep, just staring into the distance. He isn't looking at me but I find myself looking at him. I take in the set of his jaw and set of his shoulders. I look at the hunch of his back, the way he's kind of folded in on himself. I tilt my head at his posture. Why…why does he suddenly, somehow remind me of…Sophia, of all freaking people?

Oh great. Now I can't be pissed at him; he reminds me of an abused little girl. Son of a bitch. How does this asshole do that? Make me hate him one minute and then make me want to help another? Not fucking fair I tell you.

Sighing, I drop my head in defeat and swing back around. Daryl still isn't looking at me so I guess I'll have to grab his attention. "Hey Dix…Daryl," I call out and he lifts his head up, biting his nails, expression guarded and almost…embarrassed. Maybe even…remorseful? Fuck. And there went any reluctance on my part. The universe really is a bitch.

"Look," I start off, turning to face him completely, folding my legs underneath me. A part of me didn't want to do this, the fucking asshole spat in my face last time. Metaphorically at least. But I had to be the bigger person so to speak. Take the high road. My mom always said I was good at that. "I know we've both said some shit, hateful, stupid, shit but…I'm willing to put it behind us. Water under the bridge. Forgotten."

Taking a deep breath, I throw the ball in his court. "That is…if…if you are."

Daryl tears a piece of skin off one of his fingers and spits it into the water. It's absolutely silent for a breathless moment. His eyes are narrowed at me. "Why?"

"_Why?" _Really? He's this fucking stubborn!

"Yeah. Why? Why ya doin this again? Why keep trying?"

Dear Lord. He really **is** this fucking stubborn. Like a dog with a bone. "Cuz I think it's pointless to keep this shit up you know?" I tell him truthfully. Daryl doesn't say anything, just keeps regarding me all silent like and I see I'm going to have to spell this out for him. Huffing, I slide over to the side of the boulder closet to him and dangle my feet over the edge, swinging my legs back and forth. I lift an arm and gesture all around me.

"Take a look around Daryl. The world's fuckin ended. I…I walked all the way from Dalton, for a **month**, and in that time, I didn't meet _one single person _until I ran into you." I tuck a strand behind my ear and look back up the hill, towards the camp. "We, you, me, Merle, those "assholes" back at camp…we might be the only living, breathing people left in this godforsaken world." I turn back to him and cast him a weak smile, swallowing my pride and all the bitter, negative, feelings I have for this man before me. "Kinda sucks doesn't it? I think it does, this whole fucking Earth sucks, but what the fuck is crying over something I can't change gonna do? Nothing, from what I've been taught. So, why make things harder on myself? This might not be ideal and I hate to break it to you but…we are all each other has."

I lift my chin and look him square in the eye, trying, once more, to portray my sincerity and praying that _this time, _Daryl doesn't throw it back in my face. "And I was raised better than to bite the hand that feeds me. The others might not acknowledge what you do for us but _I _do. And I don't think it's right to leave all this shit up to you. So I want to help. Besides, if we are all that's left…I think fighting over petty grudges and old words is pretty fucking stupid don't you? For survival's sake and all."

The cicadas answer my question, buzzing in the silence. I continue to stare at Daryl, waiting for him to say something. For a moment, the hunter just chews on the corner of his lip, standing still, an island in the middle of the blue water around him. He's thinking, I can tell. There's something roiling behind those goddamn blue eyes of his, heavy, deep. He's actually contemplating my proposal.

"_Let's just hope Merle doesn't come fucking popping out of the bushes," _I think dryly, remembering what happened last time.

"What are ya proposing," Daryl finally speaks up, taking a step closer to me. I feel my cheeks light up as the water ripples again.

Keeping my gaze on his face, I reply, "Nothing. Just a truce and…perhaps a chance to make a new friend?"

I couldn't help the last part. It slipped out, like fucking verbal vomit. Daryl snorts at my answer but it isn't as disdainful as before, lighter this time. "Don't think I need a friend," he counters with a smirk and I draw back, almost as if I was hit because _really again?, _but then I notice his smirk is nearly…playful. I furrow my brow in confusion. "But-"

"Could use a helper though. Lord fuckin knows everyone else is useless and Merle…well Merle's Merle," he continues with a shrug. I exhale in a huff and bite my own lip. All right…so it isn't a request to go skipping down yellow brick lane but…I guess it's a start. I'll take it. Rolling my eyes at his refusal to drop this sense of masculine bravado, I stick my foot in the water and kick a splash of water at him. He ducks the spare droplets of water that reach him and fixes me a glower.

I smile at him again and this time, it's a bit easier, the bitter feelings I had for him not lurking behind it anymore. "You got yourself a deal Dixon."

Shaking his head at me, he doesn't reciprocate my splash. "Yeah, whatever. How bout ya turn around now and give me a seconds fuckin peace? Or are ya still waitin for yer eyeful?" I furrow my brow at him again but then I look down and remember that he is _naked _not _five feet in front of me. _

"Oh shi-. I'm sorry," I stutter and whirl back around, skin on fire. Daryl laughs, a nasty, mocking, sound, but now I can hear something teasing beneath the surface, an undercurrent that I hadn't noticed before.

There is a fair share of assholes in this camp, Ed, Merle, even Daryl most of the time but…maybe, just maybe, this younger Dixon is somewhat, partially, just a little bit redeemable.

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><p><strong>To be continued <strong>

**Hope you enjoyed and please review!**

**P.S.: If you haven't read **_**The Giver **_**it really is a good book Just saying.**

**Till next time!**

**~Shadows**


	9. Red Lips and Tentative Smiles

**So here is chapter 9 :) Sorry it took a little longer. :/ School this past week has been _hell on earth. _Hopefully, next week is better :P**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy and remember to review! To everyone who reviewed and alerted/favorited last time, thank you times a billion :D You don't know how happy those make me feel ^_^**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9: Red Lips and Tentative Smiles<strong>

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><p>"Audrey, sweetheart, could you pass me that shirt? The blue one, on top of the basket."<p>

I nod, even though I have a three pairs of jeans and two shirts already in my hands. Doesn't seem like a lot but this shit's heavy when wet all right? "Sure Jacqui," I mumble around my mouth full of clothespins. Juggling the shirts to my left hand, I lean down, snag Jacqui's blouse from the basket at my feet and hand it to her. "Here you go."

My response is garbled and muffled, the clothespins are awkward and bulky between my lips, but I think she got the gist of it. Jacqui smiles gratefully as she takes the article of clothing but shakes her head when she catches sight of me.

"Child," she laughs and her warm brown eyes are twinkling with mirth. "Get those things out of your mouth before you give yourself a splinter." Grinning, I hang a pair of what I think are Andrea's jeans, reaching up to extract two pins from between my teeth.

"But it's just so convenient," I tell her with a chuckle, working quickly to hang the rest of the clothes in my hand because my arm is getting a tad bit numb. "This way, I don't have to bend down to get them."

"You still have to bend down to pick up the clothes don't you?" my tent mate Abby abruptly points out. I turn to the auburn haired, older woman with a frown.

"I don't see why you have to ruin my logic like that. It's just not nice."

Abby smirks and picks up a basket of dry clothing, balancing it on her hip. "No, but it's a little fun." Still smirking, she heads over to Lori and Carol, who are stationed over at the ironing board.

I huff out a pout, blowing a few strands of hair from my eyes. "Everyone's a critic." Grumbling, I return to the clothesline and sulk, listening to the other women chuckle around me.

The morning is still pretty young but, already, I can feel the affects of the Georgian summer. The cicadas and other bugs hum in my ears, a perpetual noise, an endless, mindless, vibration. The air is thick and humid against my skin. I can feel the back of my shirt dampening with sweat, the ends of my hair sticking to the nape of my neck. Even though I can't see it, I know my face is flushed; my usually pale skin tinted a warm pink as the sun beats down on all of us.

Great. It's going to be another scorcher. I can freaking _feel _it.

Nearly half an hour passes and I'm just pinning up the last of the just washed clothes when Glenn sidles to me, a mischievous grin stretched all over his face. I narrow my eyes at him as I close the last pin on my last shirt, brushing the back of my hand across my brow. "Oh crap. I don't like that look," I tell him. "What did you do?"

"Why do you think I did anything?" he asks, eyes wide and going for innocent. Innocent my _ass. _I turn to face him and put my hands on my hips.

"Because you look like a kid who stole the last cookie from the cookie jar before dinner. So spill. What did you do?"

At this point, Glenn drops his guiltless act and just looks smug. Clearing his throat and adjusting the brim of his cap, he reaches around and pulls something out of his pocket, waving it in my face. "Guess who just won the last bag of candy off of Dale?" His voice is high and sing song, lilting on certain syllables, and, suddenly, I can smell the artificial smell of bubble gum on his breath. I blink at him, craning my neck back to get a better look, and then my eyes fixate on the clear plastic bag in his hands.

And holy crap.

The bag is half empty, obviously someone had been hitting this particular stash lately, but there is still a small treasure trove of hardened, sugared, sweets. My mouth waters as I take in the few lollipops at the bottom, surrounded by pieces of bubble gum and so many other sweet things. When was the last time I had sugar? I lick my lips at the phantom memory. Too fucking long that's when.

"Where the hell did you get that?" I ask Glenn. I try not to drool. The young man smirks and blows an obnoxious bubble, way to smug for his own good.

"Played a hand of blackjack with Dale for it. I won."

Dragging my eyes away from the heavenly sweets, I raise a skeptical eyebrow at Glenn. "You? Won at cards? _Really?_ Was Dale asleep? Maybe drunk? Or did he just feel sorry for you? Personally, I'm betting on the last option." There was just no way Glenn won that candy fair and square. I've seen him play cards. No way in hell.

Glenn scrunches his face at me. "Oh ha ha ha. You're _so _funny. I'll have you know that he was perfectly clear and awake. He was just no match for my gambling skills."

I try not to snort. As freaking if. "If I say I believe you, will you hand over some of your winnings?" I'm not above flattery, especially since this could be the last candy on Earth. Glenn makes a thoughtful face, blowing another bubble as he hums contemplatively.

"Hmm…no. You're only saying that to get something out of me. You have no true faith." Oh _really. _ Cocky jerk. Rolling my eyes, I dart a hand out and try to snag the crinkled plastic bag but Glenn pulls it back out of my reach. Damn.

"Hey! Stealing isn't the answer _Audrey."_

"Of course it is," I tell him, eyes trained on the bag in his hand, a frown of concentration etched on my lips. "Haven't you heard? When all else fails, cheat."

Glenn frowns at my words and opens his mouth to say something but before he can utter a single syllable, I'm already lunging forward, twisting my arm just so to pluck the bag straight from his fingers. Yelping, he scrambles to try and nab it back but I dance out of his arms reach, ducking underneath the line of clothes. I make a triumphant noise in the back of my throat and shake the bag mockingly at Glenn through the gap between two pairs of jeans.

"See? Told you."

The young man rolls his eyes and then holds out his hand. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry. How bout we share the bag," he amends. I consider him thoughtfully, placing a finger to my lips. A smirk dances on my lips and a giggle tickles the back of my throat but I strive to keep my face stoic.

"Hmm. _Or, _seeing as _I'm _the one with the bag, I could just keep all the candy."

To prove my point, I open the bag and stick my hand in, fingers trailing over colored wrappers in search of those freaking lollipops. Damn I want one.

"Hey," Glenn cries indignantly and he launches himself at me, hands grasping. I laugh and slide out of the way, ducking under the clothes again before I take off running towards the RV. Lori and Carol frown at me in concern as I blast past them, stilling in their ironing, but I just cast them half of a grin before I continue on my way. Rounding the side of the Winnebago, I plaster myself to its hot siding, panting and grinning as I hear Glenn curse in the distance.

This might be a tad bit childish but…I can't bring myself to care.

Shane, who is sitting across the little dirt trail in front of me, looks up from cleaning his gun and frowns in confusion. Still grinning like an idiot, I put a finger to my lips and motion for him to be quiet. He raises and eyebrow at me but Glenn's shout of "Audrey! _Where are you_?", cuts off his question. Hearing the young man's exclamation, Shane just shakes his head before turning back to his task, as if to say _I don't __**even **__want to know._

Suppressing my laughter, I duck my head and reach back into the bag, in search of my elusive reward. "Come on. Come on," I mutter. My fingers have just wrapped around the small, paper, stick of a lollipop when Glenn rounds the side of the RV, sprinting past an inch way from me, sliding on the dirt. I freeze and hold my breath as he stumbles a few feet away, hoping he hadn't seen me, but then he's whirling around, eyes narrowed, chest heaving. We stare at each other for an endless second, both panting, both rigid, and I have half a second to consider running again before he lunges for me. Shrieking, there's no time for escape, I clench my fist over whatever candy I can reach in the bag and rip my hand out. Glenn's eyes go wide and he scrambles to snatch my hand but before he can wrap his pale fingers around my own, I stuff my hand down the front of my shirt.

Glenn screeches to a halt mid motion, hand mere inches from my chest, his eyes wide. Smirking in triumph, didn't see that coming did you, I draw my hand out and wiggle my fingers at him in mocking. He goes red from the top of his shirt to the roots of his hair and he snatches his arm back as if I just burned him. He narrows his eyes at me.

"You are _such _a cheater," he grumbles out, face still flushed an embarrassed red.

Still smirking, I lift my other hand and return his bag to him. "All's fair in love and war," I sing song. "Besides, this is kind of your fault. You don't flaunt what you got unless you can protect it."

Glenn scowls at me and cradles the bag to his chest, looking as if I just kicked his puppy or something. "Yeah well…I didn't think you would _steal _it from me."

"Ah. And therein lies your first mistake. Your second being your smug flaunting of the goods."

He rolls his eyes and moves to tuck the candy back into his pocket again but suddenly the door of the RV swings and Amy steps out. She blinks at the pair of us, smiles, and opens her mouth to say something but her blue eyes catch sight of the candy Glenn is trying to hide and she gasps, quick and sharp.

"Is that _candy?"_

Glenn groans and drops his head, knowing that he's going to be broke, in a sense, in a few minutes.

I smirk at him and move to draw my stolen candy from under my shirt, I'll catalogue it later, tucking it into the pocket of my jeans. Success. "Told you so. The gods don't like hubris Glenn. Let this be your first lesson," I tell him sagely as I wag my finger in his face. He glares at me around Amy's bouncing body and flips me the bird.

"Glenn!"

The irate comment makes me turn to see Lori standing near Shane, a frown of disapproval on her lips and Carl at her hip. The boy is looking at Glenn with big eyes and Glenn looks like he just wants to bash his head against the Winnebago. Me, I'm finding all of this drastically amusing.

"L…Lori. I…I um…" Glenn continues to stutter, trying to explain himself, trying to apologize, but Lori's face remains consistently disapproving and finally he just gives up. "Sorry," he mutters, looking down so the brim of his hat hides his eyes. A second ticks by and then he lifts a hand toward Lori and Carl with a sigh. "Candy?"

Needless to say, the bag is empty in nothing flat and Glenn, sulky and put out, is climbing the side of the RV. He says it's his turn for watch but I know, as we all kind of do, he's just doing it to pout.

"Poor Glenn," Amy says from beside me, rolling a Jolly Rancher around her mouth as we walk over to sit under what she has deemed _our tree_. "I feel kind of bad."

I snort and plop down on the grass, moving to unbuckle my katana and tanto that have been digging into my skin all day. I groan in relief as I set the two down beside me, leaning back to bask in the shade."Really? So are you gonna give your candy back?" Amy purses her lips and flops down next to me, her blonde hair spreading out across the dry grass.

"Well…no. Doesn't mean I still can't feel bad though." Shaking my head, I lay back next to her, folding an arm behind my head and staring up at the sky. It's another cloudless day and the sky is so blue it almost hurts to look at.

"Oh don't feel too bad. He got _some _candy. It's not like we took all of it."

"Hmm…true," Amy shrugs and huffs out a breath. "Anyways, he'll probably be over it before the end of the day. He can't stay mad for very long."

I smile at that and can't help but nod. "No crap. He's just so…_nice _I guess is the word for it."

Amy hums in agreement. "That's probably why I don't find him hot."

I blink at the nonchalant, indifferent words, staring up at the green leaves above me in slight shock. _What _did she say? "Uhh…what did you say?" I squeak out, turning to look at Amy with wide eyes. The young blonde shifts unto her side and props herself up on one elbow, her face open and unaffected.

"I said that's why I don't find Glenn hot ya know? He's too…_nice; _too…plain. I kind of find bad boys attractive. Smokers, rock and rollers, guys like that."

I swallow dryly and feel my cheeks flush with a heat that has nothing to do with the summer temperature.

In the past two weeks, Amy and I have become…pretty close. Or at least as close as two girls can be in an apocalypse. We've talked about our likes and dislikes, I'm more of a book gal and she's dying without her cell phone; we've talked about the small amount of clothing we own, which, even before the end of the world, didn't really matter to me; we've even, in small, shallow doses, talked about our past. Amy's birthday was two weeks before mine, which made it two weeks from now. She had told me that…before…her parents had talked about getting her a new car for her birthday. That was all she had said about her parents but it's more than I had said which was…nothing. In fact, I don't supply too much depth to our conversations, just a small tidbit about myself here and there, but Amy doesn't press me. Her eyes flicker to my side from time to time though. I do my best to ignore her questioning gaze.

Amy had also told me that she had been planning to travel the world after she graduated high school. She wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, Big Ben and everything in between. College seemed too boring, she had said. Too…constraining. She wanted to be free, live a little, make some mistakes. In short, she wanted everything I never let myself dream about.

But in all that time, all our conversations, we, amazingly, never talked about…_boys. _I'm not really sure why. Well…maybe I do. We talked about all the places Amy had wanted to visit, places we knew, in the back of our minds, that probably weren't there anymore, or at least not geek free. But those were places, things, inanimate. Maybe talking about something like boys was just too…close to home? No. It's too…too…too _human. _Talking and gossiping about boys would just drive home the fact that…there weren't many left. If…if any.

"Audrey?

Startled by my name, I shake my head and turn my attention back to the girl beside me. "Oh uh sorry. What were you saying?"

Amy pouts at me, vaguely upset that I hadn't been listening, but she quickly works to fill me in. "I _said _that Glenn is cool and all, and kinda cute in a dorky way, but I think he's like…best friend material. I don't think I'd ever date him. Would you?" She cocks her head at me, blue eyes expectant, and I know she's waiting for me to come up with a response. Crap. Biting my lip, I shift my gaze back up to the sky, unable to look Amy in the face as I scramble for a reply. I was never really good at this teenage gossip crap.

"I…um…I don't know. I never really…thought about it." My stuttered answer seems to be enough for her though because she lies back down on her back, picking up the conversation.

"Well I have," she says. "I mean he's like the only guy around our age that I've seen since…well you know. Everyone else is like…_Shane's age. _Old. Just makes me think ya know? What if we have to repopulate the Earth or something like that?"

I make a chocking sort of noise in the back of my throat, how did she get to _that _conclusion, and Amy giggles again. "Ok maybe that is a little extreme but seriously. It's something to think about." I contemplate her words for a moment, rolling them around in my head, and suddenly, without preamble, a thought occurs to me and it's sliding off my tongue before I can stop it.

"Daryl's near our age. Kinda. He can't be older than 30 anyway." Amy snorts beside me, a nasty, mean sound, and barks out an equally nasty and mean laugh. It surprises me because prior to this point, I've never heard anything really negative come out of her.

"I said _guys _around our age, Dree," Amy scoffs, using her recently developed nickname for me. I don't really mind it. "Not some redneck beast." I frown at what she just said and turn my head to look at her through the blades of grass that separate us. Slivers of blue, inches away, blink back at me through the gaps.

"I don't think Daryl's a _beast _per se. Merle…yeah. He's like a rabid bear. A drug addicted rabid bear. But Daryl…Daryl's..." I trail off, having trouble articulating my thoughts. How do I tell her about the pity I saw in his eyes when he told me about the refugee center? Or about how he saved me from losing my foot in Merle's barbaric trap? How do I reconcile the sharp and caustic bastard that she knows with the man I saw down at the quarry the other day, the one who didn't bite my hand of truce this time around, the one who, in a way, reminded me a little bit of Sophia?

How do I explain that to her?

I don't have time to try, however, because Amy fills in the silence for me. "He's what? An asshole? A dick? A psychotic, racist hick, just like his brother? Yeah I agree." Suddenly, she reaches up and brushes across my right temple. "I mean, don't you remember this?" she asks and I don't have to be looking in her eyes to know she's looking at the scar there.

But of course I remember. It's kind of hard to forget. And kind of hard not to notice. I think back to yesterday when I had gone into Dale's Winnebago. The older man had asked me to grab something from the shelves in the hallway of his vehicle and, being me, I had agreed and went to fetch whatever is was he wanted, I can't even remember what now. It had taken me a few minutes to locate it but as I was turning to leave, something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.

It was my reflection.

I hadn't really seen myself in over a month. Sure, I had caught the occasional glimpse in the distorted ripples of a random creek or the quarry, but I hadn't seen what I _really _looked like, in a mirror that didn't move, in a long time. Granted, the mirror was small, dingy, cracked in one corner, but I could see enough of myself to realize…I barely recognized the girl who looked back at me.

The first thing I had noticed was my hair. I hadn't always liked it, always envied the girls with the straight sleek locks over my own wavy strands, but I hadn't _hated _my hair. Now, however, there was barely enough to feel anything over. Staring in that mirror yesterday, I had tentatively reached up and ran my fingers through my hair, feeling the dry strands against tickle my skin. In another time, another place, if it had been done properly in a salon instead of the middle of the woods in the dead of night, the cut might have looked edgy, almost stylish.

Now it just looked botched and shoddy.

The left side was longer than the right, ending halfway down my neck while the right side didn't get past my jaw line. My bangs, which had, at one time, been neatly side swept to the left and barely touching my eyebrows, were as long as the rest of my hair now, able to curl around my ear if I wanted. And I had done just that, tucked both sides of my hair behind my ears to get a full look at my face.

The skeleton that gazed back at me looked nothing like the Audrey Bennett I used to be.

My face was tight and gaunt, all too sharp angles and planes. My chin was pointed and thin, the cleft less prominent now that I had absolutely no body fat. Razor sharp cheekbones stretched out the remaining skin on my face, like knives about to cut through paper. The skin itself was still pale, though a few shades darker than what I had set out from Dalton with. The problem was I burned instead of tanned; the evidence was seared across the bridge of my nose and tops of my cheeks, just under my eyes. And my _eyes. _Something about looking into my eyes made me sad. They were nearly sunken into my skull, the once vibrant green dulled and flat, and despite the better sleeping hours I had received recently, they were ringed with pale purple shadows, like the lightest of bruises.

And then, at the corner of my eye, there was the scar.

My hand had been drawn to it, almost as if it were a magnet, pulled by an invisible force. I had been almost afraid to touch it, I don't really know why, but eventually my fingertips brushed the still healing skin and I found…it was just like any other scar I had. Nothing new, nothing special. Sure, the weapon that had given it to me had been different, bit unique, but the result was much the same as the scarred tissue on my hand, on my side, my legs, my back. I was covered in scars. This was just another one to add to my collection.

Still, my fingers had traced the slightly raised tissue, curious, beginning at the corner of my eyebrow and ending a few inches back in my hairline. It wasn't long nor was it very ugly. The skin wasn't as ropy as some of my other scars; it was more like a burn, cauterized. As I had touched the slightly sensitive skin, however, I had contemplated the fact that, a few inches, no, _centimeters, _to the left and I would have been dead. Bolt through the brain and gone. I think that fact should have affected me in some way but…it didn't. Should that worry me?

Returning to the present, I answer Amy's question. "Yes, I remember. To be fair though, I did smash Daryl's face in. I think I kind of paid him back."

The blonde smirks at the memory, starting to giggle but cut off by a yawn as she drops her hand. "True," she says, smacking her lips. I smile gently at the hazy, drowsy, look in her blue eyes. Looks like someone's a little sleepy. "Ya know…I still can't believe you did that. And then that thing with _Merle?" _She shakes her head. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Stand up to the Dixons like that," she says. "Shane's the only one that ever really says anything to them and even he's wary when he does it. But you…you don't even hesitate. You got up in Merle's face that day and didn't even _flinch _when he almost came at you. I can't-" Another yawn cuts her off mid sentence. She shakes her head as if to clear it. "Ugh sorry. Anyways, I can't decide if you're the bravest person I've ever met or the craziest."

I chuckle at her conclusion, twining my fingers into the grass. "It's a very thin line. Trust me. But…well I don't know," I shrug, plucking a blade of grass and placing it between my teeth. I roll over to stare up at the tree again, mulling over how to answer her question. "I just…I don't take shit from people. Especially assholes that try to rule through intimidation. I hate that shit. Merle Dixon isn't the first douche bag I've met. Sadly, I've known a lot. I guess, through the years, I just…learned that it's better to call these bastards out and take a punch then cower and let them walk all over you. If you let them think you're weak…they'll take advantage in whatever way they can."

By the end of my comment, my voice has trailed off into a whisper, weighed down by the memories behind the words. They leave a funny taste in the back of my mouth, like something rotten and I can't quiet stop the images; the pictures that flicker before my eyes, scenes from a time before Mom, before Irina and Manny, a time way before Sensei. They were phantoms from over a decade ago but damn if they didn't still haunt me. I can still remember the sound of _his _voice; still remember the sting of leather and the taste of blood. I didn't want to recall these things, those people couldn't touch me anymore, they were more than likely dead, but I couldn't forget. I don't think I ever will.

Amy has fallen silent beside me, more than likely mulling over my words and dying to ask questions. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, thinking that maybe, this time, I'll answer them honestly. But Amy doesn't speak up and, after a few minutes, I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She's still in the grass at my side, save the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the flicker of her closed eyelids. She's fallen asleep or is somewhere very close. Smiling gently, I sigh and decide to follow her lead. I mean what the hell? I had finished this morning's chores. And my lesson with Carl and Sophia wasn't until after lunch. A little nap couldn't hurt. Decision made, I close my eyes and I'm quickly lulled into a doze by the distant sounds of the world, trying to let my memories bleed out of me and sink into the ground, deeper and deeper, nothing more than a distant past.

Something about this place is very peaceful, almost therapeutic. Feeling the sun beating down warm from above and the grass ticklish from below, I listen to the dull hum of conversations sprinkled throughout camp. Morales and his wife are speaking to their children in Spanish somewhere near by, calming, soothing words that almost resemble a lullaby. Dale and Jim are arguing quietly near the RV, speaking of radiator hoses and spark plugs and a thousand other things that I can't even begin to name. Shane's teaching Carl how to tie a clinch knot, or at least trying to, and the young boy giggles and mutters back as the former cop messes up again. My eyes flutter open, unbidden and drowsy, and I let my head fall to the side, looking to my right at the rest of camp, the world flipped sideways and askew. Figures walk to and fro across the small area, some holding clothes or pots, some talking with others, some just walking to have something to do. I watch each person go about his or her business, a casual outside observer, and I think. These people…they are my neighbors now and yet they're little more than strangers. It's a weird thought. I knew all my neighbors back in Dalton; I knew their children, their jobs, their past. Mrs. Davenport across the street was a sweet old widow whose children were grown and gone. She made a mean apple pie and sometimes, when Mom was at work and I was at training, she watched Irina and Manny. Ms. Johnson to our left had inherited her parent's house after they passed away; she was putting herself through med-school. Mr. Blake to our right was a young businessman, all sharp suits and bright red ties; he never really liked us. But that doesn't matter. The fact is…I _knew _him, knew _them_. Knew them and saw them nearly everyday.

And yet…I had never felt as close, or as comfortable, to them as I did with Amy or with Glenn. Didn't trust them to protect me or the people around me like I trusted Shane. Didn't want to just talk to them, comfort them, be there for them, like I did with poor, sweet, Carol. Perhaps it's because I spend every waking moment with these people, from sun up to sun down and then through the night as well. Perhaps it's because we might be the last people in the world, secluded up here in the Georgia woods. Either way, these people we my neighbors now, the closest thing I had left to family in the world, and…and the thought made me equally happy and sad, comforted and upset. "_We few, we happy few, we band of brothers," _I think to myself. I had them now, had their smiles and their laughs, their quirky, unique personalities and their sweet words. But…how long did I have them for? The morbid thought wouldn't leave me alone. When I was young, I had taken my Mother and Father for granted, and after them, though I should have known better, I did the same with Mom, Irina, Manny, and Sensei. I had assumed each one of them would be with me forever.

Funny thing. I never knew forever was such a short amount of time.

Sighing, I'm about to let my eyes fall shut once more, follow Amy into a nice little nap if only to turn my brain off for a while, but something catches my gaze before my eyelashes can flutter shut.

It's Daryl, stalking across camp with his gaze glued to his filthy boots. His blue jeans are faded and torn in multiple places, caked and streaked with dirt and mud and God knows what else. His red plaid shirt is in a similar condition, the jagged ends of ripped off sleeves dangling at his shoulders, the collar of the shirt gaping open across his clavicle, sweat soaked skin shinning underneath. The sight of him makes the drowsiness that's been pulling at me since I first lay down in the grass burn away, like water under the hot Georgia sun. I haven't spoken with him much since our little heart-to-heart at the quarry, just the spare word here and there, but he hasn't tried to tear my throat out every time I looked at him. So, we're making progress. Of a sort anyway. He still glared and scowled at me but I think that's just how he is.

As I continue to watch him, I can't help but notice that the glares and scowls that he usually directed at me were nothing compared to the glower he was sending the ground beneath his shoes. He's _pissed_. I can tell by the hard line of his shoulders, the aggressive way he's walking. I'm pretty good with body language. Something must be wrong. I let my eyes travel across his figure and I take in the crossbow slung across his back and the empty string of rope he has clutched in his right hand. Oh. It seems his small hunting excursion didn't go well this morning. I vaguely wonder if he had gone by himself or if Merle had gotten off his useless ass and went to help him.

Daryl's a few yards away from Amy and I now and I'm weighing the pros and cons of saying hi to him, if only to make good on our newly made truce, when suddenly, Lori, who's standing under the RV's awning with Dale, calls out to him.

"Daryl! Daryl, wait up!"

The young hunter pauses mid-step, barely suppressed aggravation flitting across his features, and turns around to face the older woman, turning his back to me.

"What," I hear him snap and the word is as sharp as the knife at his hip. Lori comes to a stop a few feet from him and purses her lips, shifting from foot to foot, sticking her hands into her back pockets. She's uncomfortable, it's screaming from her very posture, but she doesn't back down at Daryl's caustic demeanor. I commend her for it.

"It's almost lunch time," she tells him and suddenly I'm taking my commendation back because I think I know what she's going to say to him and _please _let me be wrong.

I can't see Daryl's face but I can definitely hear the snarl in his voice. "Yeah, so what?"

Lori frowns at him and I see her take a deep breath, more than likely gathering courage to say her next words and oh crap I think I'm _right _and I really wish she wouldn't say what I know she is going to. "So…we don't have that much food left. Didn't you go hunting this morning? Did…did you catch anything?"

But she did and _great_ now Daryl's going to blow up at her. I can tell by the way his spine has snapped rigid and the way he's gripping the rope of his empty catch. Unconsciously, I tense, worried and alert, as I watch Daryl take half a step forward and stab a finger in Lori's face, making the startled woman stumble back. "If yer so damn fuckin hungry, why don't _you _try and hunt for a change? I ain't yer fuckin personal chef lady," he nearly shouts and I can tell he's working himself into a tirade so I'm already pushing myself up unto my elbows to go and try to diffuse the situation when Shane appears by Lori's side, stepping between her and Daryl. Lori's face is nothing short of relieved, big blue eyes thanking Shane silently but the former cop isn't looking at her; his dark and angry expression is focused intently on Daryl and he nearly spits his words in the younger man's face.

"Dixon, you need to back the hell on up," he growls out. To further emphasize his point, he puts a restraining hand in front of Daryl's chest. He doesn't touch him, doesn't dare right now, doesn't want the trouble, but the intent is there nonetheless. Daryl stands there for a moment, shoulders heaving, but he takes a few steps back. Shane visibly relaxes, if only just a little. "Now, I think the lady asked you a question," he says quietly after a few tense moments of silence. "Where _is_ your catch?"

Daryl scowls, I know he does, and spits at Shane's feet. "Fuck you, hoss. Ain't nothin out there, like I _told _ya this morning."

Shane glowers back at him. He doesn't seem to believe Daryl. "You check the traps? What bout them? There's gotta be something _Dixon_."

A shiver rips down my spine as he mentions the traps, the image of Merle's barbaric and sadistic contraption flashing before my eyes. Daryl falls silent at Shane's question though and the large man sneers at him in disgust. "You haven't even checked have you? What? You too methed out like your brother to even bother?" I cringe at the words, shocked that I just heard them. Fucking A Shane, really? So much for diffusing the situation.

Daryl seems shocked for a moment too but then he makes an abrupt move like he wants to shove Shane, hand coming halfway up, but the older male flickers a hand down to the handgun at his waist and Daryl freezes. I'm pretty much frozen too, not even daring to breathe because _Christ_ I hope this doesn't devolve into a shootout. Unbidden, my eyes flicker past them and settle on Carl and Sophia who are still near the RV with Dale. They looked scared as hell.

For a moment, the two men square off, silent, still, and seething, because Shane's right about the traps and the other man knows it, and then Daryl spins on his heel and stalks away towards his and Merle's tent without another word, back ramrod straight and face twisted into a ten different livid expression. Shane exhales harshly and glares after Daryl for a moment but then he's turning to Lori, asking if she was all right and reassuring her that they'll find food for Carl, even if he has to starve himself.

I turn away from the two of them, however, and allow my gaze to follow Daryl back to his "campsite." It's about twenty yards away and from where I'm still sitting on the ground, I can barely see their tent as the ground dips between here and there. But I'm able to see just enough to watch Daryl stomp up to Merle, who's sitting by the ashes of their campfire, and throw down his crossbow. He's livid and furious but Merle just looks up at him through the smoke of _another _cigarette, hell where does he get all those things, and asks his brother 'What's got his panties in a twist?'

My ability to read lips has never proved so useful.

I can't see Daryl's response since his back is to me and he's too far away for me to hear his words, but whatever he says makes Merle roll his eyes and spit, saying 'Fuck em' before he takes another drag off of his cigarette. Daryl shakes his head and I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath, and another, probably trying to calm himself, and says something else to his brother. Merle throws back his head and laughs at what Daryl had said and shakes his head, not even bothering to reply.

And then shit hits the fan faster than I can process it.

Merle's reply, or lack of one, seems to _really _piss Daryl off because he suddenly reaches out and rips the cigarette out of Merle's mouth, throwing it to the ground and stamping it out under foot. The younger Dixon shouts something else to his older brother now, I can't hear the words but the volume is definitely raised, stabbing a finger in his face much as he had done with Lori. But, unlike Lori, Merle doesn't take his shit. Scowling darkly, he knocks Daryl's hand out of his face and stumbles upright, more than likely drunk or high or a combination of both. At his full height, Merle's half a head taller than his younger brother and easily outweighs him by at least fifty pounds. He knows this too, the bastard, because he shoves Daryl, hard, making him stumble a few feet back.

"I ain't their bitch _Darlina _and I sure as hell ain't yer's. Ya wanna be their faggot errand boy, go right 'head. But I ain't a pussy that's gonna roll over cuz some fuckin _cop_ and some cooze said shit. Screw them and screw you," he snarls at Daryl and then he turns and stomps into their tent, leaving his younger brother to stand in the ashes of their cold campfire.

Daryl stands there for a few seconds, shoulders heaving again, and I watch his fists flex, clenching tight, falling open, once, twice. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself for a few seconds but then, he suddenly lashes out and punches a tree that's just to his right. The impact jars him, I see the forces of it shake his arm from wrist to shoulder, but he seems to ignore it. Instead, he stalks forward, gives his tent a good kick, I'm sure Merle appreciated that, _the fucker_, and he continues on his way into the forest behind the Dixon campsite, not looking back, not even pausing to grab his crossbow which lays forgotten on the ground.

His departure leaves the camp almost silent.

I blink after him for just an instant, my mind processing everything that just happened, and then I'm scrambling up before I know what I'm doing, reaching down to snatch my katana and tanto where they've been warming in the sun beside me. My frantic scrabbling jars Amy awake and she blinks up at me drowsily as I quickly work to buckle my sheaths.

"Where ya goin," she slurs around a yawn, lifting a hand to rub tiredly at her eyes.

"Nowhere," I tell her hastily, finally getting my tanto secured at my hip. "I'll be right back ok?"

She frowns up at me and opens her mouth to say something else but I'm already moving, jogging as quickly, and quietly as I fucking can, past Merle's tent and into the woods that Daryl just disappeared into. I hear Amy call out after me but her words are lost as I stumble into the underbrush, hoping I will be able to catch up to the hunter.

A hope that seems to prove rather futile rather quickly. "Shit," I mutter under my breath, flinging my head right then left. Which way had he gone? Making a decision, I jogged to the left, the ground sloping down towards the quarry. Maybe he had gone to the lake to cool off? But after nearly a minute of running, keeping my eyes and ears peeled, I still haven't even caught a glimpse of Daryl and I realize I must have gone the wrong way. Fuck. Skidding to a halt, I spin around and make to go back the way I came, but as I look up the gradual hill I had just sprinted down…I discover I don't really know which direction I had come from. I know I came _down _but other than that…damn it. Why am I so directionally challenged? Glancing down at the ground, I think maybe I can trace my own path back up towards camp but everything looks the same! Same green trees, same brown dirt, even the twigs on the ground seem the same, arranged in the same fucking patterns. Nothing looks different or disturbed and I think this is like a really fucked up version of those _find what's different' puzzles_.

"Why is everything so difficult for me," I ask to no one in particular. The silence of the forest seems to mock me.

After a moment I huff out a sigh and decide to just head straight. I'll have to run into camp eventually and maybe I can just skirt the edges looking for Daryl. I mean, he couldn't have gone far right? He didn't even bring his crossbow with him. Cursing my stupidity, I am about to begin my trek when a sudden voice sounds out behind me, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

"What the hell are ya doin?"

I try my hardest to stifle an extremely feminine yelp as I whirl around. Daryl stands about ten yards below me, a scowl twisting his lips and his Bowie knife in hand. "Christ," I gasp out, fumbling to grasp at my heart, which I _know _must be tumbling out of my chest. "Don't fucking sneak up on me like that. You scared the shit out of me." Where the _fuck _had he come from? I hadn't heard a _thing. _Daryl doesn't look very sympathetic to my newly acquired heart problems, however; he mainly just looks pissed.

"Then why the hell ya followin me? I already told that bitch and her fuckin lap dog that there wasn't anythin to catch. So if—"

"I'm not here because of Lori and Shane," I cut him off but Daryl doesn't look very convinced so I amend my statement. "Ok…maybe I am but it's not what you think."

"And what do I think," Daryl sneers at me. I frown at his caustic tone of voice, the barbs in his words. And here I thought we had gotten past the _I'm going to rip your face off if you breathe in my direction _stage.

"I'm not here to like…demand anything all right?" I tell him. "I just…was thinking I'd offer some of my help is all. I told you I would remember?" Snorting, Daryl spits off to the side, making me wrinkle my nose. **Gross.**

"What help ya think ya can give me?" he asks. He lifts his head and fixes me with a piercing gaze, pinning me to my spot.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I shrug and try not to fidget in self-consciousness under the scrutiny of those damned blue eyes of his. "I don't know. I just," I trail off, not knowing what to say next. Fucking hell. Why do I always do things like this without thinking? You would think I would have learned the first time! Trying not to kick myself, I try again. "Well...two heads are better than one right? I was thinking I could…I don't know…maybe I could help you look? Help you hunt?"

For a second, Daryl just stares at me and I see an undercurrent of anger flood his gaze for just an instant, causing me to open my mouth to try and mollify him, but then he just shakes his head and scoffs. "Like you could hunt. Ya couldn't even follow me and I wasn't even tryin to hide my tracks."

"Hey," I say indignantly, feeling my cheeks warm with embarrassment. "I _found _you didn't I?" Daryl rolls his eyes and I think I see him almost smirk but I blink and it's gone.

"No, ya didn't. I followed _you. _Ya were makin so much noise, it was like a herd of damn elephants. I could hear ya soon as ya passed the tent."

I blush at his words but then I realize something and a spark of irritation briefly overwhelms my mortification. "Wait! If you heard me why the hell did you let me run all this way without saying anything?"

He shrugs, not even looking the least bit sorry. "Wanted to know what ya wanted. Didn't think you'd run this far."

"Oh that makes me feel _so _much better. Thanks," I respond dryly. Daryl shrugs again and then, without another word, he turns and begins to walk away from me. Blinking in shock, it takes me a second to react and stumble after him. "Hey! Wait up!"

Daryl pauses for a fraction of a second but it's enough to let me catch up to him.

"Where are you going?" I huff out as I draw abreast of him. Casting me a sidelong glance, the hunter rolls his eyes as he continues walking, me matching him stride for stride.

"Check the traps. What I was tryin to do 'fore ya came tramplin after me." I try to not look surprised at his admission. So he actually listened to Shane? I can't believe it.

Ignoring the comment about me 'tramplin' after him, I continue to follow Daryl as he winds his way through the trees that I still can't find any differences in. "Oh," I say after a few seconds of silence. When he doesn't say anything in reply, I bite my lip and reach up to tug absentmindedly on my ear. "Well um…can I help?" The question might sound a little stupid, a little redundant, but even if I had come here to do this, that doesn't mean Daryl's going to accept it.

Again, the hunter doesn't respond right away but when we have gone a few more feet, he exhales harshly. "S'not like ya could make it back to camp alone anyway," he says and I'll take it that means _yes _in Dixonese. Fighting back a smile, I duck my head and try not to make too much noise as I follow him to the closest trap.

* * *

><p>"So…how the hell are we supposed to get that," I ask Daryl, tilting my head back to look up into the tree. A rather large looking weasel…type…animal dangles about ten to fifteen feet off the ground, thrashing from side to side and making high pitched, panicked noises. I cock my head at the trapped animal and can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy. But then my stomach rumbles and I remember that I've been out here, under the baking Georgia sun, for half an hour helping Daryl clear these traps, holy <em>shit <em>there are a lot of them, and the sympathy is gone. Now I'm just thinking of how I can get that weasel-thing out of the tree and into my stomach. But **fast.**

Daryl grunts from beside me and I drop my gaze to see him wrestling with a particularly stubborn looking piece of rope. His blunt fingers tear at the twisted knots, yanking this way and that in aggravated frustration. This is apparently our last trap and it's a _little_ hot and we're a _little _hungry so I guess I can sympathize with his annoyance. When his fingers fail to work, Daryl growls and brings the knotted twine to his mouth, attempting to use his teeth. Frowning, I open my mouth to ask what he's doing, the weasel-thing is in the _tree hello,_ but he suddenly snarls under his breath and fumbles for the Bowie knife at his hip. Ripping the steel out of it's sheathe, Daryl brandishes it like a dagger before he brings it down and slashes through the knotted length of cord. The rope gives way with a sharp snap that echoes through the air and the sound is followed by a muted rustle and the increasingly louder squeal of the weasel-thing..._that is right fucking above me and __**fucking hell I know what he was doing now**__. _Horror flooding through me, a paralyzing tidal wave, I have just enough time to suck in a breath before the frightened animal is landing on my back, sharp fucking claws digging straight to the bone.

"_Son of a bitch," _I shriek, whirling around, twisting and thrashing much like the weasel-thing had been, strung up in the tree.

The claws just dig in deeper and then their _tearing through _my skin as the animal is thrown around on my shoulders by my struggles and **fucking hell this can't be happening but it is because the thing is somehow clawing at my **_**face **_**now**.

"Fuck! **Fuck! **Ow ow ow ow! Fuck this hurts_! Get if off!" _Still screeching in pain, eyes clenched tight because I don't want to go fucking blind, I fling up a hand and am about to wrench this son of a bitch off me when a sudden strong grip latches on to my wrist and holds me tight. I have just enough time to think _what the __**fuck **__is Daryl doing I need to get this fucking thing __**off of me **_when the scratching animal is pried from my head region and my wrist is released.

Stumbling back, gasping and cursing, I squint open my eyes in time to see Daryl still the flailing weasel-thing with a quick jab of his hunting knife to its chest. There's a squelching noise, a splash of read as it squeals, high and resonating, then it falls silent and limp in the hunter's capable hands, dead. Silently, Daryl jerks the knife out of the weasel-thing's body and is about to tie it to the rest of _our _catch at his hip when he suddenly seems to remember me and snaps his head up. Blue eyes lock unto my face and he cocks an eyebrow at me and I try to scowl at him but wince as it pulls a bitching cut on my cheek. "Fucking hell! Don't fucking just look at me like that!" Cringing at the pain in my shoulders, neck, and fucking face, **god how the fuck had this **_**happened, **_I lift a hand and brush it against my cheek. My fingers come away streaked red.

"God damn it," I mumble to myself. And here I was thinking I could come away from this day unscathed. Of course shit like this would happen to _me. _Of fucking course. Well, what's done is fucking done. I can sit here and bitch about how unfair life is, how I was just trying to be a good person and help a fellow human being out with some chores, or I can grin and bear it and stop this fucking bleeding. Reaching down, I grasp the hem of my shirt and make to rip it, I don't have that many left but it's not like I have anything else right now, but Daryl suddenly calls out to me and I flinch because _great _what else is going to come flying at me?

Fortunately for my face, it's not a demented creature this time. It's a rag. On reflex, I snatch the fabric out of the air but I send Daryl a confused look as my fingers wrap around the surprisingly soft cloth. He rolls his eyes at me and grunts, "For yer face."

I'm shocked into silence and just blink at him stupidly; hand still lifted grasping his rag. Wait. He's _helping me? _Daryl ignores me though and bends down to pick up the dead weasel-thing from where he's dropped it on the ground. Using my teeth to tug on the chapped skin of my lip, I glance at the rag, that's surprisingly very clean, and, what the hell, gently press it to my slowly oozing cuts. The initial contact stings but I grit my teeth and bear it as I try to stop the bleeding.

As I slowly nurse my wounds, which I still can't fucking believe I have, I watch Daryl stalk around the small clearing we are in, the string of animals we've pulled from the _numerous _traps around camp swaying against his spine. I think I now know why Daryl always looked as if he has been rolling around in the dirt, why his skin is always three shades darker than I know it really is. This hunting shit is really fucking _hard. _And we didn't even have to track these animals! They were already trapped! Even still, I'm hot and tired and _now _I probably look like mince meat. Excellent. Just add more scars to my collection universe. Like I don't have enough already. Sighing, I transfer the blood stained rag to my other cheek, wincing at the familiar sting. However, I have to say, save the last five minutes, this little excursion of ours hasn't been _that _bad. Daryl and I haven't had the most _stimulating _conversions but he hasn't tried to stab me and I've actually learned a few things. Like how to undo common snares and tie clinch knots. I also learned how to…kill an animal more efficiently, so it doesn't feel any pain. That had made me cringe a little but I didn't want Daryl to think I was some kind of wimp. And besides, Daryl couldn't always do everything. I said I'd help so that's what I was going to do.

I also learned in the last half hour that, when not going for someone's throat, Daryl wasn't that bad of a person to be around. Ok, so he was still snappish and a little curt, and when I say little I mean moderately leaning towards _very,_ but he was, amazingly, a pretty patient teacher. Granted, this might be because I was a pretty quick learn but still. He isn't insane like his brother, isn't "methed" out like Merle, as Shane had put it. He's more…I don't know. He's more the type of person who didn't need to talk to fill the silence, who worked better in silence. Maybe that's the hunter in him, maybe that's just who Daryl is. Either way, we've worked well together over the last thirty minutes or so. It surprised me but I can't help but feel just a tad bit proud. I was actually useful for more than doing laundry and telling stories. This fact shouldn't make me as happy as it did.

"Fuck!"

Startled out of my reverie, I glance up to see Daryl viciously toss down the remainder of his trap to the ground, the rope torn and mangled. He gives it a good kick for extra measure before stomping a few feet away and dropping down unto a fallen log. Still fuming, he yanks his canteen from his hip and takes an angry swig, seething in silence. I want to smirk, but won't because I know it will more than likely hurt. He kind of reminds me of a pouting child but I'll never say that out loud. I think I've bled enough today thank you fucking kindly. Cautious, and rag still pressed to my bleeding skin, I walk towards the irate hunter and tentatively sit beside him. He ignores me for a while, which I'm fine with. Gritting my teeth, I gingerly pull Daryl's rag away from my cheek. The blue plaid remains of what I realize used to be a shirt is spotted and smeared with my blood. It's not _too _much so I think I'll live but it _is _enough that I know I'll have to go see Dale and his first aid kit when I get back to camp. Joy. This should be interesting to explain to everyone.

A sudden noise next to me makes me blink. Bewildered, I turn to Daryl, thinking he's probably close to stabbing something…to find him _laughing. The hell?_

"What are you laughing at," I ask him, the movement of my mouth pulling torn skin and making me grimace. Maybe he's lost it? He has been in the sun all day. Heatstroke perhaps?

Daryl snorts and clicks his tongue, glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes, blue eyes equally amused and exasperated. "You," he snorts. I tilt my head at him but he continues before I can ask what he meant. "Yer face is all _kinds_ of fucked up."

Disbelief burns through my veins as I balk at him, mouth open and agape, the feeling quickly chased by humiliation and finally anger. Making a sound of indignation, that was most _definitely not a squawk, _I jab my blood stained fingers at Daryl, soiled rag snapping with the force of my movement. "That isn't funny you bastard! And who's fucking fault was that anyways!"

I mean, _really!_

"Tch. Ain't mine," he replies and I am _this _close to smacking him, Bowie knife or not. I have my katana. I think I can take him.

Scowling, even with the pain, I bare my teeth at him. "Bullshit it ain't yours! Who's the one that cut the rope and released the weasel-thing from hell on me?"

Daryl turns to me, face creased with slight irritation as he leans back to get me out of his personal space, blue eyes shining with annoyance. "Hey, back the hell up. I ain't the one who was standin _under _the trap like a dumb ass!"

"Well, how was I supposed to know you were just gonna cut the thing loose? All the other traps had been on the ground! I thought we were gonna have to climb the tree or some shit!"

"That's whatcha get for thinkin then."

I narrow my eyes at the son of a bitch but I don't have a come back for that. Damn it. Curbing the urge to stick my tongue out at him, I sneer instead and toss the rag back in his face. He curses as the fabric smacks him and I try not to smirk in triumph. "Jackass, that's what you get," I say smugly and he glares back as a response.

Huffing, still vaguely upset, I turn my head to glare out into the clearing. As I continue to stare in obstinate silence, my eyes are drawn to the flecks of blood that dot the ground, the crimson droplets splattered across the leaves and the twigs and I distantly think that _now _I can see a difference in the dirt. Speaking of dirt, my eyes flicker to the rope that's been discarded in the soil, slashed to pieces. I furrow my brow at the sight and think back to the split second before my face and shoulders had been slashed to ribbons. I don't think Daryl had meant to cut the cord in the first place which kinda sorta appeases my fury. He _had_ tried to unknot it first which, now that I think about it, would have meant the demon weasel-thing would have been _lowered _to the ground instead of unceremoniously dropped on my fucking head. Just out of curiosity, it's not like it would help my face _now, _I wonder what went wrong.

Swallowing my pride, and my aggravation, I decide to ask the hunter beside me. "Hey Dar-," I begin, turning to face him. However, before I can eve finish his name, a swath of cloth smacks me the face, dipping into my open mouth and tasting like blood, copper and metallic. Sputtering, I wrench the thing off my face, no surprise it's the same bloody rag, and glare at the asshole next to me. Daryl isn't really intimidated by my glower, however, and just juts his chin out towards me with a grunt.

"Yer shoulder's are still bleedin," he tells me and I reach up out of reflex, fingertips brushing aching skin and, once again, they come away red. Cursing, I reluctantly press the rag to my left shoulder, pursing my lips at the pain.

"Thanks," I mumble, again out of reflex. Daryl ignores my gratitude so I decide to just go ahead and ask him the question he had previously cut off.

"Hey Daryl," I start again and this time, the younger Dixon meets my eyes, blue eyes as bright as the sky, locking in on my face. I fight down a blush knowing the state my face is in, courtesy of the man before me.

"What?" he asks curtly but, unlike previous times, he wasn't as sharp with me. Progress? I kind of hope so. I took a weasel-thing to the face god damn it.

"What happened with the trap anyway," I continue. "You seemed a little…frustrated with it." That was putting it lightly.

Daryl scowls at my question, at glares down at the remnants of the rope at his feet. "It's a piece a shit that's what happened."

I feel my brown furrow again, puzzled. "But isn't it one of your traps?"

"Fuck no," he snarls and suddenly it's like words are being ripped from his very mouth and the hunter's unable to stop them. "It's Merle's stupid fuckin rope. I told him it was fuckin shit but he made me drag it 'round anyway. The fuckin thing must way thirty goddamn pounds but Merle doesn't give a shit." He spits down at the ground in disgust but goes on. "And on top of the rope bein crap, Merle's so high up he can never tie the fuckin knots right. I always have to cut through em and then the whole trap's ruined!"

By the end of his tirade, Daryl looks almost as pissed off as he did when he cut the trap in the first place. I'm just glad there isn't another demon weasel-thing around. But, more to the point, I'm shocked Daryl said all that. I was expecting some kind of caveman grunt and then him stalking off into the woods again, expecting me to follow. Which I would. Since I have _no _idea where the hell we are.

Anyway.

Keeping that particular comment to myself, I clear my throat and drop my hand into my lap. "So," I say and Daryl flickers his eyes to look at me and I suddenly see in his gaze that he hadn't meant to tell me all that shit either. There's something in those eyes of his, something watchful and waiting, like he's just holding his breath for me to open my mouth and talk. A memory crops up in my mind and I recall that this is the look he had in the back of his eyes my first night at camp, my head all bandaged up, when everyone was staring at him, glaring at him, calling him "Stupid redneck trash" and "An inbred, mean, son of a bitch."

With a jolt of clarity, I realize he's waiting for me to judge him, judge his brother, call them stupid rednecks and inbred trash that can't do anything right or something like that. And though I'm _very _tempted to say that shit about Merle, fucking prick, I know Daryl will just slam closed again, sneering and snarling at me before, more than likely, storming off and leaving me to find my own way back to camp. It's partially out of survival and partially out of the fact that…I kind of don't want Daryl to hate me that I say my next words, twisting my lips to smirk around them.

"So…it's Merle's ass I'm gonna have to kick then. Good to know. When we get back to camp, I'll rally up Glenn and we'll grind his ass into the dust." Daryl snorts, I'm starting to think he only knows how to snort, grunt, and scoff, but then, surprisingly, the snort elongates into a low chuckle. It's short, and very quiet, but it's a much nicer sound then when he was laughing _at me, _both now and at the quarry a few days ago.

"Chinaman? That's yer backup? Pfft. I think ya'd do better with the older blonde chick."

I smile as I realize the tension's gone out of Daryl's face and that he's almost…_joking _with me. "First off, I think Glenn is _Korean," _I correct him._ "_Secondly, I think he wouldn't be _completely _useless in a fight. From what I heard, he's pretty fast."

Daryl looks anything but convinced. "Tch, yeah. Fast to get his ass handed to him. Merle would swallow him whole and shit out rice and egg rolls."

A peel of laughter explodes out of me, unbidden and out of nowhere, and I don't even notice the pain in my cheeks and neck as I giggle into the back of my hand. "That," I gasp out. "Is all kinds of wrong."

Daryl seems surprised that I laughed at his, I have to admit, racist comment but he ends up smirking lightly. "Just sayin it how it is," he replies and I chuckle again because, really, he's actually right. Up against Merle, I think I'd probably take Andrea over Glenn. Sorry buddy.

A few minutes pass in silence after our little exchange but it isn't awkward. We just sit there quietly, drinking from our canteens as I also, absentmindedly, clean my wounds. It's peaceful and kind of comfortable. Well, except for my minced meat skin. I'm just splashing some water on my left shoulder, which is killing me since the hilt of my katana keeps brushing it as random intervals, when Daryl speaks up again.

"Yer gonna have to clean that shit," he says and I turn to him with wide eyes, canteen poised over my shoulder.

"What?"

Daryl tilts his chin at me. "Those scratches. Ya need more than water to clean em. Don't know where the hell that critter's been and you'll get a killer infection if ya let em fester."

Worry bleeds through me. Fuck. An infection? Great. "Yeah I knew I'd have to tend to them eventually." Sighing, I flip a strand of damp hair off my forehead. "I just hope that Dale has enough rubbing alcohol left."

Daryl doesn't say anything for a second, staring at the ground as if he's thinking. "If that stupid old bastard ain't got shit," he says finally, still not looking at me and I cock my head at him, waiting. "I got some alcohol in the tent. Some bandages too." I must look a tad struck dumb by his offer because he scowls and ducks his head to glower and kick at the rope at his feet. "Ya know, since this shit's Merle's fault."

Again, just assuming here, but I think that was Dixonese for _I'm sorry._

Smiling, _ow_ that still hurts, I quickly nod in acceptance. "Ok," I say. "But you wouldn't happen to have peroxide would you? That shit hurts less."

Daryl just snorts again and I sigh in resignation. "Yeah I didn't think so." Suppressing a groan of annoyance, I move to hand Daryl his rag back but he just cocks an eyebrow at me and lightly shoves my hand away.

"The hell I want that for? All bloodied and shit. Keep it. I have others."

I roll my eyes. "Oh you're so sweet," I drawl but I withdraw my hand anyway, shifting to tuck the rag through the belt loops of my jeans. As I work to tie off the small piece of fabric, my hand brushes my right pocket and I go still.

Speaking of _sweets. _

Delving my hand into my jeans, I fish out the candies I had gotten from Glenn this morning, splaying open my palm and looking down at the assorted colored wrappers gleaming against my skin. I was going to save these for a rainy day but…a weasel from hell just attacked me and my face and shoulders have been flayed open like a gutted fish. If this isn't a rainy day, I don't know what the hell is. Plucking a lollipop, one with a bubble gum center, which is just _excellent, _I'm about to tuck the rest of the candies back in my pocket when a thought occurs to me. Darting my eyes up, I gaze at Daryl, who is bent over tying his laces.

Well…it couldn't hurt.

After a second, I take a deep breath and reach out tentatively to touch his shoulder, fingers lightly skating across his sweat-slicked skin. Daryl starts at my touch and lifts his head to gaze at me in question. I offer my hand in silent answer to his inquiry and his eyes drop to my wide-open palm. "Want one," I ask, nudging my hand forward again, jostling the sweets in my hand. "Got some from Glenn this morning. Thought we could use a little reward after all our hard work."

Daryl's face says he wants to refuse, probably on the grounds that real men didn't eat _candy _or some shit like that, but his eyes flicker from my palm to my face and back again, the blue of his irises deep and contemplative. Soon, he slowly reaches out and picks up the other lollipop, the _only _other damn it, before leaning back, candy in his grasp. He nods at me, in what I'm going to say is a thanks, and I duck my head to hide a smile.

Quietly, I unwrap my lollipop, half listening as Daryl does the same, and when I stick the artificially cherry flavored candy in my mouth, I can't help but think that…it tasted sweeter than I ever remembered.

* * *

><p><strong>And there ya have it :) What do you guys think? I, personally, was a little iffy on the ending : But let me know your opinions! :D**

**Also, as a little incentive, I'm shameless I know ., if i get at least 5-6 reviews, I'll give those reviewers a little sneak peek into next chapter ;)**

**Well, so ends my shameless promoting! Thanks for reading guys!**

**Until next time,**

**~Shadows**

**PS: OH! I also heard that Daryl isnt going to be in tomorrows episode! WTH! D: I don't know about you guys but I'm drastically upset about this! **


	10. A Rose By Any Other Name

**Chapter 10: A Rose By Any Other Name**

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><p>It's almost sunset by now, the sun barely hanging over the distant horizon, like some fat, overripe peach. Streaks of yellow render the sky in slices, the horizon is diluted a burning red, and the far reaches of the world's ceiling are bruised the deep and impending shade of twilight. Night was not even an hour away and yet, it's still humid as shit, hot and heavy. The sparse trees around him do little to alleviate the heat, it's been sticky all fuckin day, but Daryl does his best to ignore it and continues to peel the hide of his most recent squirrel up towards its head, exposing the plump flesh below. Sweat trickles down his temples, tracing winding tracks into the grime caked onto his skin and his hands are filthy, gore up to his wrists, but Daryl doesn't give a flyin fuck. This is his last fuckin squirrel and he's almost damn done with it and if those bastards say <em>one more word <em>of his "lack of personal hygiene", he will shoot them in their entitled, spoiled, good-for-nothin f-

"Hey Daryl? Where do I put this last piece? The rack's full."

Pulled from his violent musings, Daryl halts in his final cut. "What?"

Turning to his right and it might be getting dark but he's not _that _old, only 29, where he has to squint in the dusk to see Audrey lookin back at him, eyebrow cocked and green eyes questionin, as always.

"I _said," _she drawls back and Daryl narrows his eyes in warning at her attitude. Just cuz she's been helpin doesn't mean Daryl is gonna let her give him lip. She ignores his stank eye, however, and lifts her hand up, waving a piece of recently salted meat in his face as she says, "I finished the rabbit but the drying rack is full. Where do I put it?"

"_Full?" _Daryl thinks to himself. How the hell can it be full? He had brought the bigger one! Exhaling harshly, Daryl stabs his Bowie knife into the log they've been using as a table and leans forward, lookin 'round the kid's body to see for himself cuz she's probably over exaggeratin, as city folk do. But hell, she was tellin the _truth_. The foldable metal rack is gleamin in the fadin sunlight, laid from edge to edge with slices and slivers of his catch, and is honest to God _full_. They must have caught a lot more than Daryl first thought. On one hand, that's good. More food means less fuckin lip from those people. On the other hand…they had no room to lay that last piece of rabbit out, let alone the squirrel in his hands. He'd use the log that he and the kid are usin as the skinnin table but it's relatively small and unstable. The two of them are already elbow to elbow, working on a "tabletop" that is half the size of a standard school desk, each with their outside legs wrapped around the ends of the log to keep it from rolling away. It isn't ideal, shit Daryl's nicked himself a half fuckin dozen times already cuz the kid keeps accidently bumpin into him and vice versa, but it was the best Daryl could do away from camp.

Still…it's a piece of shit and worthless for his needs now.

Daryl is still scowling at the drying rack, tryin to make it grow with his glare, when Audrey leans into his line of sight and cocks another eyebrow at him. "Believe me now," she asks dryly. Mouthy brat. Daryl scoffs and leans back in his seat, or rather the stump he's usin as a seat, and picks up his squirrel to finish it off.

"Whatever," he grumbles to her, rubbing a dirt-streaked wrist across his equally filthy forehead, careful to keep the blade of the knife away from his face. "Eat the damn thing, I don't care."

The kid makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and, out of the corner of his eye, Daryl sees her wrinkle her nose at him and then the piece of rabbit in her hand. "Fine," she mutters after a second. "I'll figure something out." Shooting him a glare she think he can't see, Audrey turns back to the rack, grumbling under her breath about rearranging. Daryl continues on his with his task, seemingly unaffected.

Truth was though, he did kinda care what the kid was doin to the meat, which is why he kept shootin her glances every so often. He wasn't gonna admit it, he'd rather take a geek on with his bare fuckin hands 'fore he did, but Daryl was _starvin. _He hadn't eaten this mornin, had started out on his hunt way before the sun had even risen, and when he came back for lunch, well…he had to deal with _other _things. The memory of those things set Daryl's teeth on edge, the familiar flare of anger curlin up his spine and setting a spark burnin through his veins. But, while he tries to lose himself in the mechanical motion of his blade, _slice, slit, cut_, until he can no longer distinguish one flick of his wrist from the next, the movements are so familiar now, so ingrained in him, that they can't keep his attention for long and he's fallin back on his thoughts before he can catch himself.

* * *

><p>"<em>What the <em>_**hell**__ happened to you?"_

_Daryl cringed at the volume that the bitch's voice actually reached. Christ. If there were any dogs in a fifty-mile radius, they were bayin their hearts out. _

_The kid beside him drew back a little at Lori's god-awful banshee shriek, taking a half step back into his shadow. Daryl meant to shoot her a harsh look, he ain't her Pa and he ain't gonna protect her or some shit, but the glare came out more confused than anything because, as he looked at her from the corner of his eye, he couldn't help but remember how she had done the same thing the day they met, when Walsh had offered his hand to her. _

"_Ah…hey Lori," Audrey stuttered out, raising a hand to wave but aborting the movement half way through when it pulled too harshly on the cuts that crisscrossed her shoulders. Daryl tried not to think of how the blood was stark and unsettlin along the base of her neck and the torn fragments of her shirt. He really didn't care one way or another. It was her fault for standin under the damn trap. "Um…I know how this must look but…it's actually a really funny story." A nervous chuckle spilled out of the kid and she was chewin on her lip like it was goin outta style. The woman in front of them looked anything but amused though. In fact, under the livid fury, Daryl thought he saw a current of fear, quicksilver and potent. The hell?_

"_Funny? __**Funny? **__Audrey! You're covered in __**blood! **__Your face is torn to shreds! How is this funny?"_

_Daryl couldn't believe it. Her voice could actually go __**higher. **__He had half a mind to reach up and make sure his eardrums hadn't ruptured. However, before he could, the woman was whirlin on him, her blue eyes dark and accusing, her bony ass finger inches from his face. _

_"What happened? What did you do?" she demanded, steppin up to him as if she was gonna take him on. Daryl balked at the bitch's words, how dare her, and bared his teeth. _

_"I didn't do shit ya stupid cooze! I was gettin food for you and all the other worthless bastards here! Screw ya if ya think-"_

"_Well what am I supposed to think __**Dixon**__?" She spat his name like it was the scourge of the earth. "You walk into camp with her at your side and she's covered in blood, cut to pieces! __**Again!**__" Scowling, Lori's blue eyes flicker to Daryl's knife at his hip and, she didn't say anything, but he could see the insinuation in her eyes._

_And that pissed him off even more. "Doesn't mean I __**did **__anythin to her!" he shouted back, jabbing a finger in her face. The bitch didn't even flinch this time. _

"_Then what happened to her?"_

_Suddenly, Audrey stepped up from out of nowhere and put a hand to either of their chests. Her eyes were wide and green and the blood was still stark as hell as she whipped her head back and forth between them. "Hey! Can we stop talking about me like I'm not here or something?" she said. The older cooze opened her mouth to say something but the kid cut her off, something that Daryl was partially grateful for because now he didn't have to shut the flappin mouth for the bitch. "Hell, I'm scratched up, not __**dead**__." _

_That is exactly what Daryl had been thinking cuz, Christ, he'd gotten worse injuries from fights with Merle._

_But then, Walsh was there, shotgun in hand, and Daryl didn't think he was imaginin things when he thought the gun was half way pointed at him. "Depends on what scratched you," he said. Everyone, at the same time, went dead still at his words. The cooze took an immediate step back, that quicksilver fear in her eyes again, the crowd of people around them, all them useless, entitled bastard, doin the same thing and Daryl watched as Audrey whirled to face Walsh head on. _

_"What?" Daryl heard her say. "What do you mean by 'what scratched me'?" _

_And all of the sudden, Daryl __**got it **__and it was pretty fuckin clear what Walsh meant. He could see it in all their eyes, that fear, that panic; could see it in the way the cop was grippin his gun, the way his mouth was workin and the way his eyes were hard and flat. Daryl had no doubt in his mind that, if push came to shove, Walsh would put the barrel of his shotgun to Audrey's head and blow her brains out, no hesitation. The thought made somethin writhe in Daryl, get riled up and pissed off, but he didn't know why. The rules for this world were clear, at least to him: zero tolerance for walkers. Daryl would do the same damn thing. One bolt through the brain. Done. He would. Without even thinkin twice bout it. _

_He would. _

_The kid, however, didn't see any of those things though, didn't see what everyone else was thinkin. Daryl could tell. Her eyes were still wide, still confused, still young and open and he knew no one was gonna inform her so he suddenly took the initiative. _

"_He thinks ya've been scratched by a walker," Daryl drawled out and everyone flinched at the taboo word. Bunch a pussies. "Wonderin if he should shoot ya now or later." The words are harsh, blunt, but Daryl didn't give a fuck. These people could talk in circles for days and he had shit to do._

_Upon hearing his words, Audrey spun to gape at him, her lips a perfect 'o' of shock but it was Walsh who spoke up first. "I didn't say that __**Dixon. **__Don't be putting words in my mouth when you don't know jack shit," he snarled, lifting his gun to point at Daryl threateningly. And hell if the hunter didn't reciprocate, reaching back to swing his crossbow around, itching for a fight. _

"_Whoa, whoa, whoa! Everyone needs to calm the hell down! I haven't been...a walker didn't do this to me!" The kid was frantic as she shoved herself between Daryl and Walsh, bumpin into each of their weapons without even hesitatin, anglin her body so she's facin Walsh, the barrel of his shot gun brushin her gut as Daryl's crossbow rested in the small of her back. The tip of an arrow torn a hole in her already ruined shirt, prickin the spin underneath, Daryl could tell cuz a bloom of red suddenly appeared and he jerked his bow back, but she didn't even flinch. She was too busy talkin a mile a minute to Walsh and the rest of assholes, tryin to explain that what happened had been an "accident."_

_At the word "accident", everyone snapped their gazes back to Daryl, __**everyone, **__and Daryl sneered in aggravated defiance, challengin the accusation in their eyes. He didn't do fuckin shit. And he didn't care what they thought. The kid was just scuffed up and it __**was **__her own fault. She'd fuckin live and he fuckin had shit to do damn it. He was 'bout to open his mouth and tell them to screw off and let him through, they had formed a semicircle 'round the kid and him after all, but before he could, Audrey said somethin that drew all attention back to her. _

"…_and Daryl was the one that saved me!"_

_Wait. The fuck? Daryl jerked his head to stare down at the top of Audrey's head in confusion. He's half a foot away from her and half a foot taller than her but he knew he had heard her right. And __**saved**__ her? What the hell is she talking about? _

_Walsh was apparently thinkin the same thing because not a second later, eyes narrowed in suspicion, he said, "Saved you? From what?"_

_Having caught their attention, Audrey took a deep breath. "From a wild animal. I'm not really sure what type. I think must have messed with it's den or something because one second, I'm taking a walk through the woods and the next, it's on top of me."_

_Daryl frowned at her explanation. That…wasn't what happened. She was lying. Why the hell was the kid lying? He couldn't say anythin to the contrary, however, cuz she kept on talkin. "The animal had somehow latched itself on my shoulders so I couldn't reach my katana and by the time I thought of my tanto, it was on my face. Claws were fucking sharp. It would have torn me to pieces. That's when Daryl showed up. Pulled the thing off me." Here, Audrey shrugged, and Daryl didn't need to see her face to know she was smilin at the crowd in front of her, lyin to their faces. "As I said, he saved me."_

_The silence that followed was tense as all get out. The bastards kept lookin from Audrey to Daryl and back again, as if they were tryin to catch them in a lie. Hell with that. He hadn't lied about anythin. She had. Ain't his problem. _

_"Is that true Dixon?" Walsh suddenly spoke up, his dark eyes heavy on Daryl. His mouth twisted into a thick scowl, like he had just tasted something rotten, but before he could spit out the fuck off he desperately wanted to, Audrey turned to him, glancing over her shoulder and pinning him to the ground with those goddamn green eyes. There was a question in those eyes and a command, wrapped in one, begging him, telling him, to just fucking say __**yes,**__ and though Daryl didn't __**do **__commands, he wasn't anyone's bitch so no one could tell him what to do, he found himself grunting something of an affirmative at Walsh and the rest of the group nonetheless. Anythin to get these mother fuckers __**off**__ of him. Walsh didn't look that convinced. In fact he was still lookin at Daryl like he was contemplating shoving Audrey out of the way and just shooting the hunter in the head._

_But fuck it, Daryl was __**done**__. _

_Scoffing at the lot of them, Daryl sidestepped the kid who was still between Walsh and him, not even acknowledgin the look she sent him, and strode forward. For a second, the group tensed as one, like they were gonna try and __**stop **__him, but common sense prevailed and they parted to let him through. _

_Daryl hadn't made it ten feet before he heard the young bitch, Annie or Amy or somethin, say, loudly, "How come every time you're alone with that bastard, you end up all bloody?" _

_He heard Audrey laugh. "Shit just happens to me Amy. Daryl has nothing to do with it." _

_The blonde chick mumbled something in reply but Daryl forced himself to keep walkin back to his tent, tryin not to think about why Audrey had lied and why she bothered to defend him._

* * *

><p>Daryl hadn't really thought that the kid was gonna come find him after all that shit. She had said she wanted to help him but he just chalked it up to polite bullcrap. Besides, he hadn't been lyin when he told her that her face was all kinds of fucked up; it really was; not to mention the state her shoulders had been in. Daryl assumed she was just gonna get bandaged up and then fuck around with the chink and the other chick she always hung around. Not that he noticed whom she talked to. The three were just so loud, he could usually hear them all the way back in his tent.<p>

So imagine his fuckin surprise when she showed up, an hour after they got back to camp, standin in the exact same place that she had been days ago when she had smiled at him and asked him to come watch her fight. No preamble, no nothin. She just was suddenly _there, _all bandaged up, askin when they were gonna skin _their _catch. At first, Daryl had just blinked at her, bowled over and confused, because, _hell, _what was with this chick? He shoots her in the head, not his fault she looked like a damn geek but he had done it nonetheless, he barely acknowledges her with anything less than disdainful indifference while she's in camp, again, not his fault cuz he ain't anythin to her and she ain't anythin to him neither, he gets-_she _gets scratched up, her own fault but she _was _with him, and she keeps comin back to him, open and…kind. Why the fuck did she keep doin it? Makes no goddamn sense if you ask Daryl. If it was him…well if it was him he wouldn't have been standing where she was, ready to help, that's for damn sure.

But there she had stood and Daryl had just stared. Eventually, Audrey had quirked an eyebrow at him, realized he wasn't gonna say anythin, and told him that she had found a small little clearing with Glenn the other day, down by the quarry, that they could use to "set up shop." Christ. Set up shop. Like this was some business instead of just cleanin some kill. Daryl had looked at her like she was crazy though. The quarry, though close by car, was a pretty good hike down, not to mention back up. He had growled at her as to why the **hell **he was gonna drag his ass, and his catch, down to the quarry when he could skin right where he was, sittin in front of his tent? The kid hadn't given him a verbal answer. She just tilted her head and looked past him, right at his tent, where Merle's god awful snorin was like a fuckin-

And then it had clicked. Oh. _Merle. _Fuck. Daryl might find the kid in front of him…tolerable but Merle sure as hell didn't. He _hated _her. Spoke shit about her all the time. If he woke up to her sittin outside his _tent _with _Daryl_…the younger Dixon didn't even wanna **think **of the fight that would follow. He had predicted it would start with lots of drug induced cursin on Merle's part and end with a bullet on Walsh's. That was one clusterfuck he wanted to avoid. Given that, he had almost told Audrey to forget it, he'd clean 'em alone. But then he had glanced at the haul he had brought in and realized…it would take a long time for him to finish alone. He had done it before but…Daryl also knew it went a lot fuckin smoother and faster with a second pair of hands. And no one else was steppin up to the plate. Merle was too tweaked out of his mind at the moment and the rest of idiots…Daryl would rather stab them with his knife than hand it over to any one of them. But there was this kid, starin at him, waitin for his answer, and Daryl remembered how she had behaved in the woods. How she had listened to all his instructions to undo and then re-rig the traps. How she had helped put the still living animals down, with minimal hesitation and no complaint. Audrey was…the least pitiful of their group, Daryl would give her that much, and, if he had to admit it, she was _slightly_ helpful. And he was tired of doin all this shit for these bastards. If the kid wanted to take work _off _his hands, instead of puttin more _in, _Daryl thought he could trudge a few feet into the damn woods to help her out.

With that thought in mind, he had started to pack some gear, the drying rack, an extra knife, the small pack of salt he had for preservin the meat, somethin he had grabbed from his house when he and Merle had decided there was nothin for it and high tailed the fuck out of Dodge. When he was done, he looked up to see Audrey bouncin in her stupid shoes, eyes dartin 'round like she was nervous or just itchin to move. Daryl rolled his eyes and told her to lead the way and try not to get fuckin lost.

Which brings them to where they are now, sitting side-by-side beneath the fading sun and shaded trees. Daryl blinks as he comes out of his musings, eye focusing on his hands and discovering he's almost done with that last squirrel. He wonders how long he's been out and scolds himself cuz, dumb ass, a walker could have come up and taken a bite out of his ass while he's in fuckin lala land. He must be more tired than he thought. Shit.

"Done."

Daryl starts slightly at the word, even if it is said quietly beside him, barely audible over the humming cicadas coming awake at the ending of the day. Hell, even after this whole afternoon, he's just not used to people bein near him, let alone talkin, when he cleans a kill. Or at any time really. Unless you count Merle which he doesn't cuz Merle is Merle and whether he liked it or not, his older brother did what he wanted.

Lifting his head and blinking away the sweat trailing into his eyes, Daryl turns to the right and watches as Audrey sets down his spare knife, beaming down in triumph at the slivers of meat she had somehow managed to fit unto the drying rack. The rabbit had been thin and young, not much flesh on the thing, but the kid had still found a way to maneuver the meat she had gotten off the thing in such a way that, not only did the rabbit fit, Daryl thinks there should be enough room for his squirrel too.

Audrey looks pleased as punch too, smirking with sweat on her brow and blood on her hands. Daryl rolls his eyes and stabs his Bowie knife into the log they're using as a table, ignorin the irritating, impressed feeling that's wrigglin in his chest. "Bout damn time. Thought the sun was gonna set 'fore ya had that done," he jeers at her. Audrey turns to face him and attempts to make a face but winces when it pulls the still smartin cuts on her cheeks. Her fingers flicker up and brush across the crisscrossing lines, a pout pulling her chapped lips.

"Oh shut up Dixon," she grouses. "Today's my first day on the job and I'm trying my best." Lifting a hand, she flicks flecks of blood off her fingers at him and he scowls at her. "Besides, you aren't even done with your piece. I'm the one who's waiting on _you, _slacker."

She has a point, she had finished the rack before he finished his squirrel, but Daryl would rather pull out a tooth than admit it. They've only been at this for 'bout two hours, slaving under this tree down near the quarry, but the kid was doin a pretty good job with everythin. At first, she had been real hesitant and unsure, lip drawn taunt between her teeth, green eyes wide, and Daryl's hunting knife awkward and fumblin in her grasp. Daryl had shown her where to cut, which way to slice to render the meat from the bone like cuttin through butter, but her first attempts had been halting, choppy. It got to the point where Daryl had growled at her that if she wasn't gonna help, she might as well get the hell outta here and let him do this shit himself. Apparently the kid just needed that firm shove because the next second she had pursed her lips, cast him a heated glare, and buckled down. And, while she wasn't setting _record _speeds, and while her cuts weren't as perfect as time had made Daryl's, she was efficient. A fuckin quick learn, just as she had said.

Since then, the two of them had developed a sort of system: Daryl skins and cleans out the innards and she carves and lays them out on the drying rack, rubbed in salt. He slaps a carcass down on the log, flays it open in nothin flat, than hands it off to her to cut, just as he's reachin for the next one. Simple. Easy. And if Daryl thought that Audrey was actually pretty helpful, unlike Merle most of the time, he didn't say a word because even if the kid wasn't as useless and spoiled as all them other city folks, that didn't mean Daryl was gonna praise her for it or some other stupid shit. He was a Dixon; he didn't do that crap.

So, when she says those words like she's won somethin, smirkin at him all smug and shit, with those damn green eyes of hers mockin and darin, Daryl doesn't even blink, doesn't even _think_, as he picks up his skinned squirrel and chucks it at her, puttin her back in her place.

The first part of a gasp rattles out of Audrey's throat as the bloody carcass sails right at her face and there's a split second hesitation as she realizes if she doesn't move, the thing's gonna hit her but if she _does _move, the thing's goin in the dirt, wasted. Daryl watches the internal struggle with an internal smirk but that microsecond hesitation is all it takes because before the kid can even decide, the squirrel collides with her cheek, makin a wet _splat _sound, before it slides off her chin and lands right in her lap.

A few seconds tick by and all the kid can do is gape in shock at Daryl, the smear of squirrel blood stark against her skin. Daryl cocks an eyebrow at her, darin her to say something, half knowin she will. And, sure enough, the surprise of his action quickly wears off cuz now she's glarin at him, green eyes on fire and jaw working, wanting to set itself into a scowl.

"You know lashing out only makes me seem more right," she points out, rubbing the back of her hand through the blood on her a chin. The watery crimson streaks smudges deeper into her skin, tainting it a pinkish hue.

"Ya aint right in the first place. Only reason yer done is cuz I'm doin all the hard work," he says to her, tone more than a little defensive. Skinnin and cleanin is the more detailed work; any idiot with a knife can cut meat to eat it.

Audrey rolls her eyes but doesn't respond to his jibe as she gingerly picks up the bloody carcass in her lap. "Egh," she mutters as the raw meat slides along her palm. "I feel like I'm never going to get this blood, let alone the smell, off of me."

Daryl snorts at her comment. That's what she's worried bout? The world's damn ended and the kid's worried about body odor? Jesus Christ. Helpful or not, she still screams pampered city folk. "S'not like ya smell daisy fresh now," Daryl replies, even if it is kind of a lie. She doesn't smell too bad; mostly the bitter tang of sweat and, now, as she had pointed out, blood. But Daryl lives in a tent with Merle. He has definitely smelled worse. At his words, Audrey glares and flips him the bird, cheeks tinted red, before turnin forward again, settin the squirrel on the work table and pickin up Daryl's huntin knife, goin back to work without another word.

The small clearing they are in falls quiet again, save the sounds of the kid's cuttin and the rattle of the bag of salt. Daryl picks up his own knife and sets about cleanin it, yankin a clean rag from his back pocket and wipin the steel of the blade. The blood comes away easily enough but he knows he still has to sterilize it when he gets back to camp. Same with the knife Audrey was usin. Thinkin about all that he has to do, Daryl cranes his head up to stare at the sky, takin in the position of the settin sun and the length of the growin shadows. The two of them needed to head back soon. Ain't no use gettin caught out here after dark. Daryl would be fine if anythin happened, some dumb dead bastard wasn't gonna do him in, but the kid was another story.

It isn't that he thinks she can't handle herself. He thinks back to that spar she had with Walsh, 'bout a week ago. It's not that he had gone to watch her; he hadn't all right? Merle had fuckin used up all their water comin off of some high and Daryl had needed it to cook up some stew for the brace of squirrels he had. The group, cuz of Walsh's say so, kept the water near the RV, in big five-gallon containers, so that's why he was even there in the first place. Daryl had just siphoned about a gallon of water from one of the jugs when movement from the other side of the RV had caught his attention. He hadn't been interested, really hadn't, but as he was movin away from the old man's Winnebago, he glanced up just in time to see Walsh haul a thick lookin branch above his head and swing it, full force, at Audrey's face. The kid hadn't even flinched though, even when Daryl was sure Walsh was gonna end up killin her. She just waited him out, calm and fuckin cool as a cucumber, until the former cop was in reach. Then she did some move, jumped into action too quick for Daryl to track, and the edge of that sword of hers had been right up again Walsh's neck. Daryl recalls that fierce triumph that had taken her features, the fire in her eyes, the sweat on her brow as she bared her teeth in some sort of victorious grin or some shit. The kid had seemed…different then. Not like the lost, cryin bitch he had brought back to camp. Not like the goody two shoes that went 'round with the chink and other girl followin her footsteps, lookin to do good deeds. The kid that had Walsh's life literally in the palm of her hands looked like someone…completely different. Someone…

Daryl couldn't place it then and he couldn't damn place it now but either way, he knew the kid could take care of herself. In the day time at least. The night now, that was different. The dark changed things. Made them tricky, misleadin. Plus, Audrey still couldn't find her way out of a damn paper bag. It had taken them twice as long as it should have to even get to the clearin they were in since she kept leadin him in circles. Damn. Didn't they teach anythin useful in the cities?

Thoughts still revolving around her, the hunter spares the young girl a glance out of the corner of his eye. He finds her starin down at the squirrel she's almost finished with, her movements sure if not slow as they slice the critter in edible parts. Daryl's gaze is draw to the deft motions of her hands, the glare of the dyin sun reflectin off his huntin knife. For haulin that sword around, the sword that's currently at their feet, her wrists are thin looking. Her fingers are too, except Daryl knows her palms have calluses on them, rough patches of skin that had caught against his own when he had slapped his knife in her hand and told her what to do. There are scars on her knuckles as well, like she had been in bar fights or some shit, some long and thin, others pockmarked. He half wonders how she got them and half says he doesn't give a flyin shit.

The scars, though, make Daryl lift his eyes to her face, takin in her profile, and the red lines he can see on her cheek. She used to have them bandaged but, after 'bout half an hour under the Georgia sun, the gauze had been soaked with sweat, stingin the cuts, so she torn the shit off and let the wounds air out. She put an antiseptic ointment on, however, to ward off infection, and Daryl wonders as to why the hell those idiots back at camp gave her the whole damn tube. Shit like that was more precious than gold now and the fuckin morons were handin it out like free candy, over a handful of scrapes. Not for the first time, Daryl marvels at how they have survived this long. However, back to the kid's face. The scratches really aren't _that _bad; Daryl wasn't lyin when he said he had worse. But they do look livid against the kid's pale features, long, angry lookin red lines that crisscross her face in interestin patterns. There's a particular one on the cheek that's facing Daryl that draws his eye. The beginnin of it stretches from the corner of Audrey's eye and arches down the length of her cheek until it curled under her jaw, smooth and uninterrupted. The striking red of it, coupled with the shape, makes it appear as if the kid is cryin blood.

"You're staring at me."

The sound of her voice, after the long endured silence, jars him and Daryl blinks as he realizes he's gazin into the kid's eyes now, not just at the side of her face. A prickling sensation crawls up the nape of his neck and he scowls at her. "No I ain't."

"Yes. You are," she replies, face blank and unaffected by the heat in his words. "You wanna take a picture? It'll last longer."

Daryl hears the teasin note in her voice, sees the smirk that's curlin the side of her mouth, the glint in her eye and _fuck her_. He scoffs and turns back to the knife that's been sittin in his lap for God knows how long now. "I wasn't starin at ya."

He hears her laugh softly. "You are such a liar, Daryl Dixon. Liars don't make friends ya know."

And something about the heat in his cheeks, the uncomfortable feeling writhin in his gut, makes Daryl spit the next words in Audrey's face. "Ya lied to those idiots back in camp. Aren't they yer _friends?" _He says the word like an insult, cuz it's meant to be, and Audrey flushes as he calls her out.

"That was different," she mumbles and Daryl barks out a laugh.

"Different cuz it applies to you?" He snorts in disgust, embarrassment makin him curl his lip at her with disdain. "You people are all the same. Gunnin to spout rules and judgments on everyone but when it comes back to _you, _ya decide to change the rules."

The kid snaps her head up and fixes him with a glare, the flush on her cheeks no longer due to embarrassment. He's pushed her buttons again and now she's spittin fire. "Why the hell is it always 'you people'? What is with your 'us versus' them mentality?" she demands. He doesn't reply and she shakes her head. "Daryl, I don't know if you realize but not everyone is trying to be an asshole to you. Maybe you should show the same fucking courtesy."

The hunter just rolls his eyes but the kid keeps goin. "And, for your information, I didn't tell the rest of them I had gone hunting with you one, because it was none of their goddamn business, and two, I didn't want it getting back to Merle, cuz, let's face it, he isn't my biggest fan," she bites out dryly.

Daryl agrees with her there but doesn't say it. Hell, he doesn't say anything. He just grits his teeth and stands up, not even lookin at the kid as he starts to pack up his gear. She's silent and still for a moment and he can feel those eyes of hers burnin a hole through the back of his head. He doesn't care though so he doesn't look, just slings on his crossbow and sheathes his knife. By the time he's ready, he turns back towards his dryin rack, ready to just grab the meat and leave but the kid's already ahead of him. She's strung the meat on the length of rope he uses for catches, the red slivers and slices dangling from homemade hooks. Around the meat, which is mostly bunched in the center of the rope, she's tied a plastic bag that Daryl doesn't know where the fuck it came from or how she got it. Either way, he doesn't care. It'll block the dirt and grime and bugs from gettin on the meat on the hike back up. Not that Daryl cared if there was dirt on the meat but he knew the other assholes would. Christ. He wishes, not for the first time, that he and Merle had never met them.

Without lookin at her, Daryl reaches out and yanks the rope from her hand, before stalkin off into the trees. He hears her curse, loud and vulgar, followed by the metallic clangs of her wrenchin the dryin rack closed. Not lookin back, he listens as she crashes into the underbrush behind him, quickly catchin up and fallin into step.

The hike back to the camp is silent, just how Daryl fuckin likes it. He keeps his gaze locked in front of him, ears constantly on a swivel, but other than the songs of roostin birds and the ever present Georgia bugs, the only other sounds are the kid's tramplin footsteps behind him. They falter every now and again as she trips on a root or rock, but Daryl doesn't stop. The sun is almost to the horizon by now, skatin across the very edge, and the hunter thinks he can feel a relief in the god awful summer heat comin along. They've almost reached the perimeter of camp, 'bout fifty yards away from the useless piece of shit string of cans them idiots like to call "alarms", when Daryl hears the kid curse behind him again, louder than ever, and suddenly, there's the sound of her gettin closer and her hand's on his arm.

Daryl jerks away from the touch and whirls around, eyes narrowed and mouth a thin line. The kid's expression, instead of bein pissed and irate like he imagined it would be, is soft and open, her lips parted slightly and her emerald eyes wide. The two of them stare at each other for a moment, squaring off in the growing bruised air of twilight, before Audrey sighs and runs a hand through her hair, across her eyes. The motion shakes free flakes of dried blood, the crimson chips dusting across her face, floating through the air.

"Look Daryl," she begins and he notices the tired lilt of her voice. He doesn't relent his glare though and stands with a fist clenched in the strap of his crossbow that is wrapped around his chest. She continues. "I don't want to keep fighting you all right? I just…I…" A groan echoes out of her throat as she gropes for the words and suddenly, her eyes are locked on his, her chin tilted up to look him directly in the face. "I want to keep helping you ok? This shit is hard work, a lot harder than I had first assumed, and it's unfair to leave it all up to you. So, I do want to continue this. But…"

Trailing off, Audrey takes a step forward, bringing her within arms length of Daryl. The hunter tenses, unused to people being in his personal space, and glowers down at her. She purses her lips and her eyes narrow into slivers as she lifts a hand, pointing at his face. "But this…this needs to stop," she says with conviction. Daryl frowns, confused at what she is referring to. His breathing? The fuck.

"What?" he growls at her and she jabs her finger even closer to him.

"That! That right there. The growling and the glaring and the going for my throat every few minutes. Daryl, I can't help you if we keep going rounds. I can't help you if you keep getting pissed off at me and storming away into the woods. So can we just let everything that's happened so far be water under the bridge? Can't we just let bygones be bygones?" she pleads.

Daryl is silent and the kid gets this weird light in her eyes. Maybe it's the evaporating sun that's setting behind Daryl, maybe it's the summer air doin some weird shit, hell maybe Daryl's just dehydrated, but right now, right here, the kid looks like she has real emeralds for eyes, bright, crystal clear, and sharp as hell.

"Come on Daryl," she wheedles quietly, her voice almost a whisper. "Can't we be… friends?"

Her request hangs in the air between them, throbbing, like a pulsing heart. Daryl, not for the first time, is struck dumb by what Audrey has said. Friends? This again? Hasn't he told her he doesn't need friends? He's sure he has. Multiple times. The most recent bein down by the quarry when they made this little truce is the first place. The world has ended and life now is just stayin one step ahead of the walkers, out of their hands and out of their teeth. Friends…friends are more useless now then they had been before. Alliances how, those are a different story. Daryl had an _alliance_ with the people back at camp. A weak one, cuz Daryl was _sure _one day he was just gonna haul off and shoot one of those bastards, if Merle didn't beat him to it, but it was an alliance nonetheless. The fact of the matter is there is strength in numbers, no matter how _stupid_ those numbers are. More people means more ammo and more ammo means more protection. Theoretically at least. Daryl thinks, if nothin else, more numbers means more bodies between him and the walkers.

But a friend…that's a complication, and a headache, he doesn't need. Schoolin his features into a scowl, Daryl delivers his answer. "I've already told ya. I don't fuckin _need _or _want _a friend. Ya deaf or somethin?"

At his words, the kid frowns, the edges of her lips pulled drastically down as her brow pinches sharply together over blazing green eyes. The tenderness from moments ago is gone. "Why?" she bites out.

Daryl would be lyin if he said the venom in her voice didn't surprise him. "Why what?"

"Why are you so hell bent on bein alone?" Her posture and her voice are angry, tight and controlled, but Daryl sees somethin wavering in her eyes, some left over softness, somethin that looks like…pity. It pisses him the hell off cuz who the hell is this kid to pity him? He has all he needs and all he wants.

"I ain't alone. I got Merle. Kin," Daryl snaps. "Anythin else is worthless; unnecessary."

For a moment, the kid's jaw works, her teeth grindin, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Then she opens her mouth and says, "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival."(1) The words are level and monotone with a flat cadence that reminds Daryl of the way he used to memorize shit for school, years and years ago, all indifferent attitude and apathetic hostility.

But what the _fuck? _

Daryl is thrown for a loop, mind reeling, and he suddenly feels stupid which makes him even angrier. "What the fuck does that mean?" he snarls at her.

"It _means," _Audrey emphasizes, but her voice has lost its harshness and her shoulders suddenly droop as her annoyance seems to whoosh out of her. She casts him a wearied look, eyes whirlin with her thoughts, and runs a hand through her short hair again. "It means…the world has ended. Now, more than ever, it looks like it's every man for himself. But if everyone takes that route, how are we any different from the walkers?"

"We ain't dead and we ain't lookin to take a bite outta someone."

The kid scowls sharply again and takes a step forward, almost bringin her chest to chest with Daryl. The hunter sneers at her but doesn't take a step back. She didn't intimidate him. "I'm being fucking serious Daryl," she hisses. "If we only look out for ourselves, we lose something of our humanity and fuck, we don't have that much left. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of feeling like prey, like nothing more than a walking piece of meat just biding time until my time is up. I don't know about you…but I want to feel human again."

Daryl feels something twitch in him at her words, a common thread, a similar sentiment. He had always been the hunter, since he was no more than a kid himself. But, since the world had gone tits up, he had gone from bein the hunt_er _to the hunt_ed. _ It sucked, fuckin royally. However, Daryl didn't complain, didn't bitch and whine. Dixons don't do that shit. Merle and their father had taught Daryl that at a young age; the younger man had the scar to prove it. Dixons don't complain; they just took the crap the world threw at them and kept on goin, middle finger raised and not givin a flyin shit. However…Daryl would be lyin through his teeth if he said that he hasn't thought something similar to what the kid had just said a few times since this shit started.

How the fuck did this kid always seem to always be right?

Seein as Audrey has stuck a cord in him, caught him unawares with the truth in her statement, Daryl feels the scowl on his lips lessen and some of his anger bleed out of him. But he is a Dixon and that meant he isn't easily, or completely, diffused. "I still don't see how the hell this got anythin to do with _friends,"_ he responds gruffly but the kid just smiles. It was small, just a quirk of her lips, but it is there.

"Because friends are the ultimate source of humanity. When you're losing yourself, they're there to pull you back and vice versa. They can keep you sane, keep you grounded. And a _true _friend will do their best to keep you alive, if nothing else. Kind of useful in an apocalypse no?"

Daryl refuses to answer that question because hell if it doesn't make sense. Daryl doesn't need friends; he had told that to himself long ago, when Merle had given him his first real beat down after he came home from kindergarten, a drawing in his hand from a little colored boy named Ted who had said they should be _friends. _From then on, he stayed away from people, snarled when they got to close, and responded with his fists when they didn't leave him the fuck alone. _Friend _was a bad word, taboo, vulgar, and Daryl did his best to erase it from his vocabulary.

And yet, as he opens his mouth to tell her this, his eyes take in the scratches that score her face, the track of blood that looks like tears tracin across her cheek, the foldin rack that's tucked under her arm, and the gore she's covered in, up to her thin damn wrists. And then, some traitorous little voice that Daryl has tried to never listen to, that's always popped up when Merle's doin some stupid shit and askin his baby brother to follow, jumps right to the forefront of the hunter's mind, not to be ignored. "_Looks like you don't really have a say in the matter," _it says and Daryl thinks about what that means. Here this kid is, in the middle of the woods with him, covered in blood that's half hers and half animal's, to help him do a job that had always been his, since day one. A job no one else questions, a job everyone else expects him to finish with no questions asked. And, even after everythin Daryl had…even after the way he's acted towards her, which was the way he acted towards everyone, she's here again, offerin a truce, an implied forgiveness, and somethin Daryl has never experienced. Somethin that the younger Dixon is suddenly realizin she's already given. Cuz who other than a _friend _would put up with this shit and stick around more? _No one_, that's who; not even Daryl's own kin.

Well…_fuck. _

"Daryl," Audrey says and the hunter snaps back into focus. It's harder to find the kid's eyes, he quickly discovers, her face is cast in stark relief, all shadows and blurred lines, and it appears that while Daryl had been lost in his head, night has finally fallen.

"Shit," he curses under breath, turnin his head to look up the hill towards camp.

Daryl can see the dim orange glow of the fires and can slightly hear their voices, carried on the wind, hushed and muttered whispers. He doesn't think he imagines the hue of worry in the raised voices, nor the sharpenin edge of hostility. Double shit. Daryl just knows the arguments are about the kid. She's been gone far too long. Turnin back towards her, Daryl jerks his chin back up the hill, lips pinched.

"Gotta get back 'fore Walsh sends the whole fuckin cavalry after ya." Audrey bites her lip, he can still see that, and looks like she wants to say somethin else but Daryl growls and reaches out to yank her forward. His hand catches one of her wrists, the skin soft beneath his fingers but gritty with dirt and dried blood. He releases her as soon as she is level with him, havin stumbled the last couple feet to his side. "Listen, I know ya have more shit to say but time's up. If ya aren't back in that camp in the next ten seconds, Walsh is gonna come chargin through the trees and I don't want an ass full of pellets." Daryl hopes that the loss of the sun and the urgency of his tone might make the kid drop her previous topic but, of course, no such fuckin luck.

"Then answer my question," she demands of him, chin tilted in defiance and emerald eyes blazin a path into his own, bright as hell even in the dark. She's so close that Daryl can feel her breath on his neck, feel the tension in her muscles. He scowls done at her but suddenly he can hear Walsh shout somethin and Daryl just doesn't have the goddamn energy to argue with this kid.

"Fine," he grinds out. "I'll stop fightin ya so ya can keep helpin. But the _friend _shit…"

That just ain't him, ain't Dixon.

Audrey huffs out and irritated breath, the puff of air skating across the stubble on Daryl's chin and neck. He thinks she's about to argue, so he opens his mouth to stop her, but she beats him to the punch. "What about a partner then? Could we be partners?"

Daryl blinks at her proposal, rejection on his tongue again, but then he realizes he can find no fault in it. Partners. Partners were like allies; no unnecessary emotional attachment yet mutual benefit. Partners was sensible. Partners…Daryl could do.

"Ya alright. Partners," he agrees roughly. "But don't go spoutin shit to the chink or anyone else. Bunch of gossips will make sure Merle finds out and if that happens…" Daryl trails off, leavin his implication dangling in the air.

The kid suddenly smiles at him, teeth a flash of white in the darkness, and parts her lips to say something but, before she can, there's a rustle in the brush beside them and Daryl is wrenchin up his crossbow before anyone can blink.

"_**Jesus Christ!" **_the chink cries out, his slanted eyes crossed as he stares at the point of Daryl's arrow that's just brushin his nose. "I…I just have to pee man. Please don't kill me."

Audrey's laughter echoes in the air and Daryl grinds his teeth to keep from smirkin at the chink's terrified expression and the fact that, Christ, he thinks the kid has wet his pants.

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><p><strong>(1) Quote by C.S. Lewis<strong>

**Alright so sorry this chapter took so long :/ Had a long week. Also, i apologize for the overall shortness and crapiness of the chapter as well . I wanted to get something out before too much time had passed but I promise to have a longer better chapter up sometime this week :) Spring Break after all lol.**

**Still, please remember to review and to all those who reviewed last time thank you so much! :D You guys are awesome ^^ Keep it up.**

**~Shadows**

**PS: OH! So, Norman Reedus (Daryl) is in a city near me and I am totally seeing him tomorrow...erm...today 0.o Whatever XD It's really late/early right now and I am tired but way to excited to sleep. As an extra incentive, all those who review can ask me questions about the best day of my life lol**


	11. Memories Pressed Between Pages

**A/N: Hey guys Here's Chapter 11. Sorry it took so long :/ My internet's been down for a few days and I haven't been able to post this xP But I went to a Starbucks to post it so here is the next installment of my story! xD**

**Please remember to review! You guys are really good about that and I want to thank the people who reviewed last time from the bottom of my heart They really do make writing this story just that more enjoyable. **

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own TWD, it's characters, or any pieces of literature/poetry this chapter mentions.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: Memories Pressed Between Pages<strong>

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><p>"So, what did you guys like best about these chapters?"<p>

Carl and Sophia blink at me from across the table, hazel and blue orbs equally round. My question hangs suspended in the air for a moment before they fumble to respond.

"I like-"

"What is-?"

The two begin at the same time, questions blurting out and melding around each other. The kids stop for a moment, shoot looks at one another, and share some kind of understanding because it is Carl that speaks up again.

"What does it mean to 'release' someone?" he asks. "It seems kind of important but I don't get it."

I smile at the young boy, dog earring the page where we left off and setting down _The Giver. _"Well Carl, what do _you _think it means?"

Lori's son furrows his brow and frowns at me. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking!"

Beside him, Sophia slowly raises her hand, tentative and shy as she gazes at me below her lashes. "Yes Sophia?" I ask, giving her a gentle smile of encouragement.

She lowers her hand and tugs on a strand of her short hair. "Um…I have an idea what releasing is but I…I don't know if it's right," she says quietly. Sophia is always so hesitant about everything, so doubtful, so unsure. It makes something hateful roil in me, a burning, acidic feeling because I know exactly why she acts this way, can see the fucking bastard she calls _father _clearly in my mind, as clearly as I can see the bruises on her thin wrists. I don't say anything though. God knows I want to, God knows I _have, _but Carol has specifically asked me to stay out of it, a whispered plea at the quarry as we had finished up some laundry. I try not to think of Lori's _I told you so _face when I finally relented, the words sour and poisonous in my mouth.

So, biting my tongue on what I want to say, I force myself to return to the present. "That's ok Sophia. We are learning here. You don't have to be right," I tell her as softly as I can.

The young girl still seems uncertain but she clears her throat anyway. "I…is releasing like _dying? _It kind of sounds like it since they mentions it always happens to old people or sick babies." I'm surprised at her intuitiveness, feeling a grin blossom on my face and something akin to pride well in me even if she came up with the idea all on her own. Sophia really is intelligent. I just wish I could do something more for her.

"Ahh now that is a fine idea Sophia. Why don't you hang on to it for a while though? I don't want to ruin anything for the both of you. But that _really_ was a very nice comment," I praise and Sophia blushes bright red as she smiles bashfully.

"Wait," Carl suddenly speaks up. "If releasing is dying, why is everyone happy about it? Shouldn't they be sad? I don't understand." He frowns again and places his chin in hand, pouting.

Reaching across the table, I ruffle his short hair briefly before he swats at my hands. "Just have patience young grasshopper. Good things come to the one who wait." Carl's pout intensifies and he sighs.

"Fine."

I smile, amused, and turn back to Sophia. "What did you like about the chapter Sophia? Was there anything else that caught your eye?" The young girl bites her lip and, even though the table blocked them from view, I can tell by the flexing of her arms that she is clasping and unclasping her hands. It is silent for a moment as Sophia thinks over her answer.

"I…I liked that Jonas has different colored eyes," she says finally, quietly, almost like admitting a secret. "They're blue right?" I don't miss the way her own gaze flickers over to Carl, shy and quick, before looking back at me. I force myself not to smile at the realization that someone seems to have a little crush. The notion makes me feel a little giddy and a little hopeful.

"Well you don't really know that this far in the story. People in Jonas' world can't differentiate between colors," I tell her and suddenly, Carl is speaking up again.

"Why can't they…what word did you use?"

"Differentiate. It means to tell the difference between."

"Oh…well why can't they diff…different…differentiate between colors," he asks, face scrunching as he tries to form his lips around the word.

Oh damn it. I just gave something away didn't I? Crap. I always do that. Sighing, I scratch at my left cheek, the scabs of my days old scratches itching like crazy. I've already reopened them more than once today. The skin irritation just drives me crazy. Fucking weasel hellion. "Oops! Seems like I gave something away," I admit sheepishly. "Forget you heard that. You'll learn about it later."

Carl looks slightly upset, face pinched and lips pursed. "Aww come on! Can't you tell us why?" I cock an eyebrow at his wheedling tone and, while Sophia doesn't say anything in support, I can see the same request in her expression. Why are these kids so cute? It is drastically unfair. Reluctantly, I consider his request for a moment, trying to come up with a response; something a teacher would of told me if I had asked the question. Suddenly, a reply comes to me.

"Well how bout this? You tell me some of your ideas as to why his eyes are different and, if you are right, I will tell you." Bam. Now tell me that did not sound like a legitimate frustrating teacher question.

"Oh! Oh! I know! I know! Pick me teacher! Pick me!"

The over enthusiastic comment comes from off to my left and I roll my eyes as I recognize the high, pitched tone. Sophia and Carl giggle as I turn in my seat to fix the newcomer with a playful glare. "Students will be silent unless called upon," I scold, wagging a finger as firmly as I can.

Amy smirks at me and plops down in the grass at my feet. "Yes teacher. Sorry teacher."

I force myself not to roll my eyes again and school my lips not to twitch into a smile. "Whatcha need Amy. I'm working here." And just because I am having fun does not mean I am not working. The blonde sighs and leans her head against my chair, looking up at me with those big blue eyes. Her pink lips are turned down into a pout to rival Carl's.

"Glenn's on look out again and I've finished most of the chores. Andrea's off doing something with our other tent mate Michelle and I'm _bored."_

"So…you decide to come bother me then?"

Amy blinks up at me, the picture of innocence. "Yes," she replies and there is not an ounce of remorse in her voice. I shake my head at her and laugh.

"_Amy," _I stress. "I'm having a lesson with Carl and Sophia." It's the third one we've had in as many days but we haven't done much. One reason is Sophia has limited time away from the _thing _Carol is regretfully married to. The second reason is…I'm trying not to rush things. I only have so many books. When we run out…there is nothing left.

The pout on Amy's face deepens. "So? Can't I stay and listen? I won't be a bother."

I send her a deadpan look, eyebrow cocked and her pout melts into a scowl. "I'm _not _being a bother," she says adamantly and I raise my hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright," I tell her laughing. "You can stay. But no distracting me or my students. I'm watching you." Amy nods in response and shuffles up to a tree stump that is about a foot away from the table, all wide eyes and expectant grins.

"You won't even know I'm here," she says. I highly doubt that.

Shaking my head, I turn back to my still giggling pupils. "Anyway," I tell them. "Where were we?"

"You asked us what we thought about Jonas' eyes," Sophia supplies helpfully.

Oh yeah. Shifting to make myself comfortable in the unstable folding chair I am currently sitting on, I lace my fingers on top of the equally rickety table. The motion is mainly to keep myself from picking at my scabs again, which are itching like _nobody's _business, but I hope it looks like I am giving Sophia my undivided attention.

"And what do you think?" I ask her. Sophia fidgets under my gaze and I try to keep my expression as kind and genial as possible. Coaxing, coercing; the tone of voice I used to use on my neighbor Mrs. Davenports crazed cat. Sophia scratches at the table with an overgrown nail, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed. I know this embarrasses her but I really want to her what she thinks. She's just so smart and endearing. She just reminds me so much of Irina.

"C…can Carl go first?" she asks. I'm not surprised by her request so I nod and turn to the young boy at her side.

"Carl?"

He furrows his brow for a moment, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth while he thinks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amy stifle a giggle and I shoot her a semi-stern look. She holds up her hands in surrender but continues to fight a full-blown grin. "I think," Carl suddenly says and I turn my attention back to him. His expression is hesitant but determined and he sits up a little straighter in his seat as he faces me. "I think that…are his eyes different because…_Jonas _is different?" What started out as a statement trails off into a question but he is on the right track. The proud feeling wells in me again.

"And how is he different? How do his eyes contribute to that?" I ask. Sophia abruptly jumps in and she looks just as surprised as I am when the words come tumbling out of her mouth, like they couldn't be contained anymore.

"It's because he sees things differently," she blurts and then blushes as she stammers out the rest of her response. "I…I mean like with the apple, the one he was throwing around with his friend Asher. He saw it differently. Is…is that why his eyes are different?"

And these kids are two for two. If I had any candy left I would be giving them out in my happiness. As it were, between Amy and I, and that one lollipop I had given to Daryl, I'm all out. So much for making them last. "That's exactly right Sophia. You too Carl. Jonas' eyes are unique because _he _is unique. Later in the novel, the way Jonas sees things will come more and more into play and shape what will happen," I tell the pair of them. I think that generalization is ok. It's not a spoiler if there are no details. Right?

Carl glances at Sophia with an impressed expression, a small smile tugging at his lips. "We're pretty awesome aren't we Sophia," he crows and raises his hand for a high five. Carol's daughter gives a shy grin and claps her hand to his lightly. I chuckle at them and lightly tap my hands on the tabletop.

"Alright. So now-"

However, before I can say what we are going to do next, a suddenly, shrill beeping noise cuts me off. Blinking, I glance down and spot the digital watch that Glenn had lent me, the timer screaming at me that my 45-minute session is up. What? I'm done already? Crap. Where does the time go? Sighing, I look back at Carl and Sophia with an apologetic grimace. "Ah well it seems like our time is up today." The two kids groan in real disappointment. "Sorry, sorry! We'll pick this up tomorrow. But, as homework, I want you guys to write a one-page essay on all the ways that Jonas is different than his family and friends. If you have trouble, come talk to me ok?"

Carl and Sophia nod as they start to slip out of their seats, ready for their free time that always comes at the end of our classes, the intrigue over _The Giver _already fading.

"Ok Audrey! See ya later," Carl calls and he's tripping over his feet as I watch him run over to Shane, the former cop chopping away at some firewood. I roll my eyes good-naturedly at the rush he's in but I can't really blame the boy. He looks up to Shane like father. I don't really know what happens to his actual father…but it's not all that hard to guess. Sophia, who isn't in such a hurry, casts me one last smile as she pushes in her chair.

"Thank you for today's lesson Audrey," she says, just like always. I wave her off.

"Don't mention it Sophia. Thank _you _for being such a good participant. You always have very good comments."

The girl ducks her head under my praise; her face red again as she kicks at the hard packed earth. "Well…I really like the book and…you read really nicely. You don't make it seem like work. It's…it's fun," she mumbles. Getting up from my seat, I move to stand in front of Sophia and squat so I can look her in the eye. She timidly bites her lip as she glances at me.

"I'm glad you think that Sophia. I'm really glad. I _want _you to have fun; I want you to like this as much as I do. To hear that you do…that makes me really happy."

Upon hearing my words, Sophia looks really shocked, like she's never heard that she's made someone happy. The realization makes me sad and angry once again. Suddenly, Sophia's name echoes through the camp and the pair of us turn to see Carol waving near the RV.

"Sophia! Come here sweetie," she calls out again and her daughter waves back in acknowledgement. Wide hazel orbs turn back to look at me in question and I nod at her before reaching out to turn her away.

"Go on. Your mom's calling you. We can talk more later. And remember, if you need anything, _anything _at all, even if you just want to talk, I'm always here." Sophia looks happy about that, her light brown orbs sparkling, and runs off to her mom.

However, as I straighten to watch her go, Sophia halts in her tracks a few yards away and suddenly whirls to run back towards me. I frown at her, thinking she might have forgotten something, a pen, a pencil, but before I can open my mouth to ask her what's wrong, her thin arms suddenly throw themselves around my waist and squeeze tight. I stumble under the impact, even if she weighs no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and blink as Sophia continues to hug me. Bewildered, I slowly return the embrace and hug her back gently. The young girl pulls back after a second and grins up at me, open and bright.

"Thank you," she says again and then she's off again, running back to her mom. I'm left standing there, puzzled but with a warm feeling in my gut, until Amy comes up and hip checks me playfully. The motion startles me because, for a second, I had forgotten she was there.

"Wow. And here you couldn't get me to _spit _on one of _my _teachers if they were on fire," she muses as she stares after Sophia, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me. What's your secret? Bribery? Do you still have more candy that you're dishing out without sharing with me?"

I roll my eyes at the sarcastic blonde and go back to the table that's set up behind us, reaching out to collect _The Giver _and the extra paper and writing utensils that are scattered around. "_You're _the one that ate the last jaw breaker Amy. You know I don't have any more candy. Besides, I don't need bribery. I'm just that good," I say smugly even though I lack the true confidence behind the words. It's not that I lack complete faith in my teaching skills, I know this book pretty well. It's just…well I'm only seventeen for Christ's sake and I've never actually had a teaching class. I'm basically winging this shit here and trying to remember all the things that made me like my favorite teachers.

Amy scoffs at me and sinks into the chair that Carl had recently vacated, dropping her chin into her hand. "So good that Morales turned you down flat when you asked if you could include his kids in your classes?" she says to me.

I look up at her across the table as I pluck the last pencil up, a frown etched on my lips. "I told you I don't teach Louis and Eliza because they are too young. Louis' only 7 and Eliza's 6. They wouldn't understand _The Giver."_

Sighing, Amy traces random patterns on the tabletop with her index finger, looking past me with a distant glaze to her eyes. "I know, I know," she mutters, still not looking at me. "Just trying to rile you up."

There is a quality about her tone of voice, a quiet and softness, a depth, which makes me pause. Something is up. Amy's been a little weird since last night at dinner, staring silently into the campfire and then flashing bright smiles all around when Glenn asked her what was up. Even when she had run up and interrupted me with Sophia and Carl a few minutes ago something about her was off kilter, her voice too bright, and her smile just a tad bit too strained. My lesson with Lori and Carol's kids fades to the back of my mind, replaced with worry about my friend.

"Amy," I venture, lips pursed as I slip into the seat across from her. "Are…are you ok?" The question is valid in this context but even now I feel stupid saying it. How can anyone be _ok _in an apocalypse?

The blonde sighs at my question, big and dramatic. "Yeah," she drawls and it doesn't take a genius to tell she wants me to press. So I do.

Reaching across the table, I knock her hand out from under her, causing her head to drop at the unexpected motion. "Hey!" she cries indignantly, her blue eyes pinning me with a half-hearted glare.

I ignore her annoyance and tilt my head at her. "Alright. What's up? And don't tell me nothing because we _both _know that's a lie. You've been acting funny since last night. Fess up already."

Amy retains the fire in her eyes for a few moments longer before she sighs again and her expression wilts. She drops her head onto the tabletop, pillowing the impact with crossed arms, and says something to be that comes out muffled and garbled. Frowning, I lean forward and turn an ear towards her. "What did you say?" I ask.

Huffing, she lifts her head and pouts at me but there is real sadness in her eyes, lurking behind faux irritation. "I _said," _she drawls with emphasis. "That it's really _nothing _just…" She trails off and jerks her head to the side, glaring off into the trees. I patiently wait as she chews on her words. "It's my…birthday in ten days and…well…I just never planned to spend my eighteenth birthday stuck in the woods with a bunch of strangers and eating squirrel for breakfast lunch and dinner."

Her tone is bitter and upset, like she's been dwelling on this for some time, but I have to say I'm completely surprised.

Her birthday? That's what she is upset about? To be honest, I had totally forgot her birthday is coming up. I mean there _are _a few more important things I have on my mind like…well like eating and surviving mainly. But I do kind of feel bad that I failed to remember as this obviously means something to Amy. What's more if Amy's birthday is upcoming…that means _mine_ is as well, seeing is how I remember hers being two weeks before mine. Wow. I never really made a big deal about my birthday before, there was never really a time for it until I met Mom and by then I didn't much care either way, but I had never just _forgotten _about it. It makes me wonder as to what else I've let slip my mind.

Shifting in my seat, I try not to look as uncomfortable as I feel. "Oh…Amy," I begin, not really knowing what to say. Thankfully, she cuts me off before I can fumble for the words.

"It's not that I don't like you or Glenn," she suddenly blurts out, wide blue eyes turning towards me in amends as she realizes what she had said could be construed as a bit rude. "I love you guys but…you see…I just had different _plans._"

I try not to point at that, yeah Amy we _all _did, but the upset teenager keeps going, unable to stop now that I've given her the okay to start.

"My best friend Emma…she and I had planned this _huge_ party. Her parents owned a summer cottage or something out on Lake Sydney. They said we could use it." Amy starts to gnaw on her lip as she continues to tell me her story, clearly becoming more upset, and her eyes are bright and clear…but I can tell they don't see me. They see this girl named Emma, they see a large lake that I've never visited, they see the shinning waters and the milling people of a huge party that was going to be but now never will.

"We invited all of our friends, and all their friends. One last party before everyone went away. One last amazing memory to make. We planned it all out. Emma's older brother, Michael who I might have had a crush on, was even going to buy the booze for us. It was supposed to be the best night of our lives. It was supposed to be…the best birthday I ever had," she finishes, her voice gone and tapering off into a hushed whisper, weighed down by the memory, of the reality, of days gone by.

And then, it hits me. In a way, I've sort of always known; it isn't that hard to tell to be honest. But hearing Amy tell this story, this…_thing _that's got her wound up and so upset, not the aspect of her lost friends but the reality of the lost _party_…I realize…she was, _is, _one of _those _people. The popular people. Who throw big parties and want hundreds of people they don't know jumping around them, loud, drunk, and obnoxious. One of those people that I never understood and, for the most part, never cared to look my direction. Now, I'm not saying I was some loner with no friends and I am not saying that I dislike Amy for the quality of personality that she possesses. I had friends and now, one of them is Amy. Simple as that. But before all this shit happened, before the dead got up and walked and tried to take a chunk out of me and every other living, breathing thing on the planet, I had never talked to an "Amy". I had my friends; friends who I had inside jokes with, who would rather have a movie night at their house than go out but still managed to have a social life and meet new people. But my friends and I...we weren't the popular people. We didn't go to parties every Friday night and wake up every Saturday morning wondering what the hell happened. We didn't _need _hundreds of people we barely know all drunk around us to have a good time.

But, apparently, Amy did. Apparently, she still does. Again, I'm not judging her because of this. Amy is my friend _now, _no matter what we would have been to each other weeks or months ago. The fact of the matter is…I just don't know what to say to consol her. I've been to a few parties before, and when I say a few I mean I can count them on one hand, but I never got the appeal of them. What am I supposed to say to Amy who is mourning the loss of one? I frankly don't know and I think Amy can see that because she suddenly frowns at me.

"Audrey, are you even listening to me?"

Balking at her sharp tone, I stutter for a response. "Y…yes! I just…I just don't really know what to say Amy," I tell her honestly, feeling blood rush to my cheeks in embarrassment, causing my scabs to itch again. "I'd say I'm sorry but that just doesn't seem like enough or…what you're really looking for right?"

Amy's eyes blaze bright and blue at my admission and all of the sudden they're wet and brimming with tears. "What I'm looking for is a little compassion but all you're doing is staring at me like I'm an idiot! You're supposed to tell me you're sorry and then come up with a plan to make it better! Tell me we will plan a better party!"

I'm floored and floundering because what the _hell? _She does realize we have less than twenty people up here and it's the _end of the world _right?

"Amy," I begin, incredulous and trying not to show it. "How…how would we even do that? There's not much we can do up here. If I told you we'd plan a better party…I'd really just be lying to you."

"So? Lie to me! At least make me feel better! At least _talk _to me!"

I sit back in my chair at her words, wide eyed and completely confused. I really am lost now. "I talk to you every day Amy," I point out to her. Hell, we talk nearly every hour. I don't understand what she means.

Apparently, my lack of understanding just pisses the unstable girl off more because she smacks a hand down on the tabletop hard, making it wobble.

"No, you _don't," _she hisses. "You prattle on about nothing for hours but whenever I try to talk to you about something serious, you make some excuse and walk away. You don't talk about your past; you don't talk about anything of importance. You're all business; all food this and water that and who's on lookout and when's your next lesson with Carl and Sophia. It's like we aren't even friends. I mean don't you care about me? I've told you all about me and I know _nothing _about you."

By the end of her tirade, all I can do is gape. Shit. How fucking long has she been waiting to say _that? _My mouth opens and closes and I'm sure I look like a gasping, dying, fish but Amy doesn't even give me time to draw a breath.

"You know what? Never mind. I was stupid to say anything." Getting up, she shoves back her chair and tries to fix me with a glare. The tears threatening to spill out of her eyes ruin the effect however. "You just don't get it. You just aren't…_Emma," _she says and the pain in her voice that lingers, even after she's stalked off towards her tent, makes me realize…this wasn't all about that party.

* * *

><p><em>Success is counted sweetest <em>

_By those who ne'er succeed. _

_To comprehend a nectar _

_Requires sorest need._

_Not one of all the purple Host_

_Who took the Flag today_

_Can tell the definition_

_So clear of Victory_

_As he defeated-dying _

_On whose forbidden ear _

_The distant strains of triumph_

_Burst agonized and clear!_

I sigh as I finish Emily Dickenson's poem and close my book with a definitive snap. The worn black leather shines dully at me in the afternoon sun, the crevices and cracks shadowed. I frown as I see that my fingers have been digging into the warm cover, long nails creating grooves as I read. "Shit," I mutter to myself. Prying my hand open, I set the book down carefully beside me, shifting my tanto and katana over so that they lie between the edge of my perch and the book. I could dry the steel off fine; the book…not so much. Satisfied that the leather bound book wouldn't go tumbling into the water, I turn back to face the blue lake before me, arms crossed over the tops of my knees and my chin digging into my wrist. A headache thrummed at the back of my eyes but, seeing as nothing I had done in the last half hour had worked to get rid of it, I did my best to ignore the pain.

Instead, I just stare out over the quarry, listening to the water lap at the shore and feeling the sun burn the nape of my neck. The skin's probably already a bright pink leaning towards red but I don't really feel like moving. Besides, I more than likely only have thirty more minutes, at most, before someone comes looking for me. Might as well enjoy the peaceful silence. My temples suddenly give a sharp throb and I wince. Ok. Maybe peaceful is the wrong word. I haven't been able to find _peace _since Amy stormed away from me nearly an hour ago. After she had left me, dumbstruck and feeling guilty, at that table I had tried to find her to apologize but Andrea had said her younger sister had slipped into their tent and said she wasn't feeling well, promptly falling asleep. With that plan shot, I had then gone to Lori and Carol to see if they needed help with chores but the two older women said they had mostly finished. So, with Glenn still on watch for another hour, I had been left to my own devices. Dale had seen my wandering around and had flagged me down to talk but five minutes in and I found myself saying I needed to go down to the quarry, freshen up and all that jazz. Frowning, Dale had told me to take Abby or one of the other women just for safety's purpose and, while I had smiled and told the older man I would, five minutes later I was lopping down the dirt road alone, katana on my back, strapped under the familiar weight of my backpack.

The truth is…I just needed to be alone for a while. My conversation with Amy had unnerved me and the thought of listening to Dale talk about…I honestly can't even remember, or trying to make awkward small talk with one of the women, had only caused the tightness in my chest and the pulsing in my head worse. I had thought some time by myself, staring out over the cool blue mirror of the quarry's lake, a book in hand, might relax me.

However, _nothing _had worked. I had gone through all the novels in my pack, the seldom titles I still retained, but none of the stories held my interest like they used to. Like they were _supposed _to. Even poetry couldn't grab my attention. I'm too riled up, too…out of sorts with Amy's outburst. I feel like I failed her. In a way, I actually did.

Amy hadn't needed some profound words to make everything all better; I realize that now. What she had needed was an ear to tell all her problems to. She had just needed to talk everything out, get it all off her chest; all the pain that she has felt, all the sorrow at the loss of her friends, her family, all that anguish that had been channeled by the singular event of her impending birthday. She had just needed a friend, someone like this Emma that's more than likely long gone by now, but I didn't know how to be someone like that. I'm the exact opposite of Amy. And I just don't mean in regards to likes and dislikes or how we used to spend our Friday nights.

What I mean is, whereas the blonde wants to talk everything out, bounce her feelings off of people and sort through them in that way, I won't voice my problems unless it is absolutely necessary. I keep them to myself; swallow them down, trapped behind a wired shut jaw and titanium teeth. It's not that I'm conceited or anything; I don't feel like I am superior to people and as such can't share what I'm feeling. I'm not some cold-hearted bitch with a god complex. It's just…that is how I spent the first half of my childhood. From the age of 5 until I was 10, I had learned, been taught, through words and through actions, to shut my mouth and grin and bear it. Complaining got me nothing but more bruises and more things to grin and bear. So, I just learned to shut the fuck up. Even after years with Mom and Sensei, the habit of silence is a little hard to break. So hard, in fact, that I don't believe it's a habit anymore but rather just a part of who I am, just a part of the Audrey Bennett life has made me.

Which is why I hadn't recognized what Amy was looking for right of that bat. It stared me in the face and I just couldn't see it. Another world-weary sigh escapes my lungs and I lift a hand to tangle in the dry strands of my hair. I call bullshit on those people that said time healed all things and that it's just a matter of moving on. Well, I moved on. And yet that bastard is still managing to fuck up my life.

The wind starts to pick up and I relax a little into the semi-cool breeze, tilting my head back as the stifling Georgia air turns a little more bearable. After a few minutes of blissfully cooler air and soothing deep breaths, I decide that I'll head back to camp soon. I can't hide out here in the woods forever. I need to go and try and fix my cluster fuck with Amy. Plus, people are bound to start to worry, especially Dale if he finds out I came down here alone, and I don't need them to freak out on me again. Hell, a few days ago, the whole camp almost dissolved into WWIII when I came back with just a handful of scratches. And when I returned from helping Daryl _clean _the catch, sun already sunk below the horizon? Fuck. Shane had been _livid, _Lori too, and I don't think I can bear another lecture of responsibility from either of them. Hearing them tell me what I should and should not do kind of pushes my buttons, even if I know they mean well. I might understand where she is coming from but Lori _isn't_ my mother and I am _not _a child and if she tells me _one more time _that I need to "think before I go off somewhere" and "consider other's feelings" I might just pull a Daryl Dixon and stalk off.

"Ya fuckin stalkin me kid?"

I start as the baritone drawl crashes into me; drastically loud for the former silence I was previously basking in. Well speak of the fucking devil. Craning my neck to look behind me, I see Daryl standing about ten feet away, his ever-present crossbow slung across his back as he directs his ever-present scowl at me. I try not to laugh at the déjà-vu of the entire situation because, really, haven't we been here before?

"Well, well. Fancy meeting you here. But, seeing as this is the, what, second…_third _time you've ran into _me _I'd say you're the stalker Dixon," I quip back, casting the man a smirk over my shoulder. The redneck rolls his eyes at me.

"I'd be half past stupid to stalk _you. _Yer more trouble than yer worth kid."

I cringe slightly at his words but I know he doesn't really mean them. They lack the heat that Daryl used to have when he talked to me. "Ouch. Fucking harsh man. Break a girl's heart why don't you." Daryl doesn't respond to my pained lament; he just fixes me with a level, inscrutable look as he continues to stand on the pebbled shore of the quarry. I frown up at him as the silence stretches thin between us.

Feeling awkward, I turn to completely face him, easing up on the painful position of my neck as I curl what used to be part of my bangs around my ear. When he still doesn't say anything, I decide to voice the question I know _he _knows I have to ask. "So," I suddenly say and Daryl's eyes are no easier to read when they lock onto my own. "Did you come down here to bathe again because, as enjoyable as that was the last time, I think I'll take a rain check and head back up to camp if that's the case." The sarcasm is pretty thick in my tone and Daryl's gaze takes on a certain annoyed sharpness as he spits to the side.

"Can't I get some fuckin peace and quiet without one of ya bastards climbin up my ass for it," he abruptly snarls and I blink at the anger in his voice. What the hell?

I hold my hands up in a placating gesture, mentally scrambling back, brakes locked and tires screaming. "Whoa whoa now! It was just a joke Daryl. No need to crawl up _my _ass about it!" Fucking hell. Why is it that every time I talk to this guy it's like dodging fucking bullets? Talk about more trouble than it's worth. I thought we were past this shit!

Daryl's mouth works as he glares at me but I don't avert my eyes or cower like other people do in camp. I'm not afraid of him. I know he's more bark than bite. I mean, out of all the instances where he's fixed me with his patent _I will rearrange your face with my hunting knife and laugh while doing it _glower, he's never actually, _physically, _harmed me.

Ok, the day that we met doesn't count. Those were extenuating circumstances.

Besides that day though, Daryl's never hurt me and I don't think he's going to, now that we have this tentative…_partnership _going on. I suck on my teeth at the thought. The word still feels funny, even in my head. Why the fuck can't I just call him a _friend _and be done with it? Jesus Christ.

The hunter still hasn't responded to me and, by the way he's biting the inside of his cheek, coupled with his rigid posture, I'm thinking he might just turn tail and stomp away in true Dixon fashion but suddenly, he spits to the side again and the words come grinding out.

"Just lookin for some fuckin silence," he growls, glaring down at the ground as his worn brown boots scuff at the grey-pebbled shore. It's like I _pulled_ the words out of him, they are so forced and reluctant. I must be gazing back at him a funny way, maybe something akin to expectance or bated, because when Daryl lifts his head and meets my eyes, he spits his next words out like yanked teeth. "The stupid spics' kids are cryin up there, Walsh is bitchin about some shit, and Merle's on my goddamn last nerve, the fuckin asshole."

It takes me a second to process his words and when they do, surprise and concern flutters through me for just an instant, what was wrong with Louis and Eliza, but then it tapers off with the knowledge of, if something was _really _wrong I would have heard it by now. As for the other things Daryl said…Shane's current status isn't completely surprising; he is kind of our unofficial king boss so he has to make sure a lot of things are running smoothly. If he gets a little terse about it, especially towards Daryl, I'm not really one to judge. And Merle…well Merle is _always _on my last nerve, just for fucking _breathing, _so I'm not bowled over by the fact that he's managed to tick off his younger brother.

However, it sounds like I picked a pretty good opportunity to make myself scarce. If Merle's riled up and Shane's riled up, and there are upset children thrown into the mix too, shit's about to go down up the hill and I'm not sorry to say I _really _fucking glad I'm all the way down the quarry. In fact, I think I might just stay here for a little while longer.

"Sounds like shit's hit the fan up there," I muse out loud, not knowing what else to say.

Daryl scoffs. "Tch. No fuckin shit." Suddenly, he kicks at the ground again, hard, sending up a spray of rocks, and then squints past me out over the lake. As I sit there staring at him staring past me, I take in the sweat on his brow and the look on his face, equal parts hidden weariness and blatant irritation, and an idea comes to me. It's banging at the back of my teeth, rattling on my tongue, but I hesitate because I don't know if this is a partnerish idea or if it looms to close to that taboo word of **friend **that Daryl snarls at every chance he gets but, as the hunter shifts like he's thinking about leaving, I think _fuck it, _and the words come out anyway.

"Why don't you come sit down then," I say, motioning to the rock I'm lounging on, and Daryl, after a split second of surprise flickering across his face, narrows his eyes at me, orbs full of suspicion. Oh here we go again.

I roll my eyes at the accusing look. "Don't look at me like that alright? I'm just saying you should sit the fuck down instead of stalking off into the woods, pissed off and half-cocked. If a walker comes by and bites you in the ass because you can't see anything past the red haze you have in your eyes, I, for one, am personally fucked. How the hell else am I supposed to get food then? Merle? I think he'd rather stick _me _on a spit."

The words are half true and half tease. Wait…no they're all truth. If Daryl dies because he's too ticked off to see two feet in front of him, our whole group will starve. Not to mention Merle will more than likely go ape shit and kill us all if he finds out his baby brother is dead. Hm. Well I guess that means we _won't _starve. Silver lining. Either way, I'm really just looking out for the well being of the group here. And if I can kind of tolerate Daryl's presence more than most…that's neither here nor there.

For a moment, Daryl just stares at me in silence, which is half of our every interaction, the other half being the exchange of expletives, before he _almost _fucking smirks at me. Half way through the twitch of his mouth curls into a sneer though but his words are not nearly as acidic as his expression. "Merle wouldn't put ya on a spit," he says and I cock an eyebrow at him but he finishes his statement before I can challenge. "Ya ain't got enough meat on ya. Like I said, more trouble than yer worth."

Oh the _motherfucker. _My reaction is immediate and second his words reach me, I wrinkle my nose and simultaneously flip him off, already formulating a comeback. "Oh fucking ha ha. You're real funny Dixon," I jeer and then my retort comes to me and I'm eager to pay Daryl back. "But, if I do recall, I had enough _meat _on me to fuck you up pretty good." Lifting a hand, I rub at the bridge of my nose, mocking Daryl with the reminder of when we first met, more specifically, when my skull first met his nose.

The hunter scowls at me, mouth twisted all kinds of ways but a smirk pulls at my own lips and I turn to face the quarry again, seemingly without a care in the word. A childish sense of triumph settles in my gut because _finally, _I've rendered him speechless. Bennett: 1, Dixon…well it doesn't matter his score.

Daryl doesn't move for a few seconds, it's silent behind me but I can still tell he's there. I have a half an instant to worry that maybe I just pissed him off more and that he's going to leave, but soon enough he's curses something colorful and then there's the telltale crunch of feet on gravel as he approaches. My smirk widens as he gets closer. Hook. Line. Sinker. I think it's Bennett: 2 now.

A few moments later Daryl appears in my right peripherals, still scowling up at me. Biting my lip to hide the smirk that just won't fade, I collect my things-katana, tanto and book-and switch them to my other side, simultaneously shifting to my left to give Daryl some room. The boulder is a pretty comfortable size, about ten feet from side to side and six feet front to back, so there's enough room for the both of us. At least more room than that log Daryl and I used as a seat to skin those animals a few days ago. We were practically attached hip to shoulder. Kind of kept pissing him off since he repeatedly nicked himself as a result.

When there is enough space for him to sit down, Daryl hoists himself up; with some effort seeing that the boulder is a bit high off the ground, about mid chest for him. As he hauls his body up on the rock though, I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on the underside of his arm, a flash of black lines and sharp curves etched into his bicep. I only see it for just a second, he's already settling down by the time I blink, but I saw enough to wonder as to why Daryl has a demon, complete with a spiked tail and wings, carved into his skin.

Daryl grunts as he shifts into a cross-legged position beside me, making sure to leave a few feet of space between us, and pulls his crossbow forward onto his lap. Not even sparing me a glance, he pulls out a rag from _somewhere, _he never seems to be without one, and starts to clean his bow and arrows. His movements are stiff and mechanical; sure strokes against metal mechanisms and carbon bolts. He pretends like I'm not even here. I shake my head slightly at his continual standoffish exterior but decide to keep my comments to myself, settling for bringing my knees to my chest and just sitting in the silence.

I'm not really sure how long I just sit there, staring at everything and yet nothing in front of me. I know it's long enough for my back to become sticky with sweat under my green t-shirt, long enough for my legs to grow stiff and warm in my jean cutoffs, long enough for my brain to start to run, restless and jittery. The quiet starts to grind on me, oppressive now instead of soothing, and, soon, I begin to fidget as boredom taking its toll on me. My foot slowly starts to tap out a random rhythm, the sole of my worn converse scratching against stone and I absentmindedly scratch as my face. The sudden sting of a broken scab jerks me out of my listless fidgeting and I heave out a sigh before uncurling my legs and throwing them over the edge of the rock, letting the limbs swing over the precipice. The idea of returning to camp flits across my brain but remembering what Daryl had described its condition as, I think better of it. I don't really want to walk into a battle zone right now. It would be better to go back when things have settled down. Whenever that is. I'll give it another half hour.

Shifting to make myself more comfortable, my left hand brushes against something warm and soft and I look down to see my tanned fingers resting along the black leather of my book. I purse my lips at the sight, trailing fingertips across the smooth face before I think what the hell. Maybe I'll be able to lose myself this time, finally relax. Wrapping my hand around the book I pull it gently into my lap and let it fall open to a random page.

It's another poem, which isn't surprising since the book is full of them, but the content makes a smile pull at my lips. The twitch is a little bitter, a little ironic, a little sad, because the words I'm reading tell about a war and, goddamn, if my life isn't war of the worlds right now. Still, this is one of my favorite poems, full of powerful prose and a soothing rhythm, and I can't help but dive headfirst into the stanzas, feeling my tense muscles finally unclench and my jittery mind leveling out as I partake in the familiar past time.

Wonder of all wonders, the poem takes this time. It captures my attention like it's supposed to and I quickly find myself lost in the words. All to soon, I'm almost to the end, halfway through the last stanza. But, all of the sudden, Daryl abruptly growls under his breath beside me, an irritated jagged sound. It pulls me from the page and I turn to him in confusion, wondering what is wrong now. Not three feet from me, his serrated blue eyes pierce me with their glare. I blink at him.

"What?" I ask, the first words that have been said between us in a long while. Daryl continues to glare, brows scrunched and lips thinned, body quarter turned to face me. It's one of the few times I've been this close to him and looked him in the eye and I find myself _looking _at him without meaning to. I can see the individual lashes of his eyes from this distance, the few days' stubble on his chin and cheeks, the sweat that's pooling in the hollow above his upper lip. Everything is zoomed in and up close and everything about his face screams annoyed. It makes me distantly question whether or not Daryl knows any other emotions besides the range from irritated to infuriated and, if so, if he knows how to show it.

"Ya know how to be quiet kid?" he grinds out and I'm drawn out of my reverie by the accusation in his voice. My brown furrows in bewilderment. What the hell is he talking about? I've been fucking _silent _since he came down here. Is my _breathing _getting too loud now?

"Daryl," I start. "I haven't said _anything._"

The puzzled tone of my voice in tinged with the shadow of annoyance and, while I'm trying to be patient here, we're _'partners'_ after all, Christ knows I'm not a saint.

Daryl shakes his head sharply, beads of sweat rolling down his temples and scattering off the ends of his unruly, uneven, strands of hair. "Yeah, ya have. Been mumblin to yerself like some damn loon for the past coupla minutes. Christ on a crutch. Don't none of ya'll city folk know how to be quiet for a few minutes?"

I'm stumped as to what he's referring to and I know my face must show it. The last thing I had said to him was the mocking jeer about his broken nose. Mumbling to myself? I rack my brain for the memory. What the hell is he…?

And then the realization hits me, what he's talking about, a ton of fucking bricks, and I feel a familiar flush crawl across my cheeks. Oh son of a bitch. This again? Fuck. Biting my lip, I try to match Daryl's scowl to hide my embarrassment. For a second I think about lying, just denying the shit up front, but I immediately cast that idea aside because, really, he's caught me red handed.

"I know how to be quiet just fine okay," I snap at him, my ears burning what I know is a bright red. "I just…it's just a bad habit alright?" The admission comes out a little rough and I duck my head slightly. "Sometimes I accidently read out loud if I don't pay attention."

Sad, embarrassing, but true. If I'm concentrating hard enough, or if I'm tired enough, stressed enough, the words usually slip out, no longer just inside my head. It's gotten me in trouble a few times, teachers thinking I'm cheating in the middle of a test, but it hasn't happened in a while though and, stupidly, I find myself surprised that I've retained such an…ordinary, mundane, tick.

When Daryl just gives me this look like he thinks I'm crazy, dirty blonde eyebrows arched and blue eyes flat, my skin burns hotter and I sneer at him. "What? Are you saying _you _don't have some kind of tick or habit you can't break? Well, I'm sorry I can't be perfect like you Daryl."

Something in my response suddenly seems to cow Daryl, diffuse him, maybe the embarrassed hitch in my words or the words themselves, because the judging look leaves his face, and the irritation smoothes out of the lines around his mouth and eyes. He exhales harshly out of his nose and does it again before he lifts a hand to bite at his nails, the skin already raw and red around them. Distantly, I observe the dirt on his fingers, the dirt that's streaked all across his body really, and think that _can't _be sanitary, but then he's talking again and I focus on that.

"I ain't sayin I'm perfect," he grumbles around his thumb, eyes trained on my face for a moment longer before they skitter off to the side. He looks like he wants to say something else, I watch the curve of his Adam's apple bob once, twice, but he doesn't look at me again and a silence settles over us once more. The hush is tense now, however, not the slightly awkward but kind of okay one we used to have. It's full of a hollow and fading hostility, a charged chagrin, and the weight of words I can see the hunter trying to swallow down and forget. I wait with slightly bated breath to see if he will say them anyway but, after a few moments of watching Daryl glare out over the lake, obviously done with talking, I realize he's not going to and I slowly turn back to my book. In the back of my mind though, I find myself wondering why he and I always had these short, snippy arguments, without fail, whenever we were in ten feet of each other.

I try to lose myself in the poem again, however, as I gaze down at the words, I can't read them; they keep blending together, the loops of my handwriting melding and twining until it's an indiscernible mess. Something niggles at the back of my mind, making me frown down unseeingly at my lap. A thought keeps pestering me, nagging me, making me chance a glance at Daryl out of the corner of my eye minutes after we've fallen silent. Quietly, I gaze at his profile, all redneck sleeveless button down and worn out baggy jeans. I narrow my eyes as I continue to scrutinize him, trying to see something, something that I saw but overlooked and now won't let me go, and, suddenly, I notice a…discomfort in his posture, an uncomfortable hunch to his shoulders, and a tightness to his jaw.

I tilt my head slightly as I put a word to what I'm seeing. He's…upset; that's it. I can read his body language like an open book. And all of the sudden I realize, like the cliché flicker of a bulb above my head, that…it hadn't been my mumbling that set him off; he's been pissed since he walked up on me.

I thought it had just been his usual just pissed off attitude but now I see it's more than that. Deeper; darker. And it is really fucking obvious now that I think about it. When he and I had skinned those animals a few days ago he hadn't been like this. Yeah, sure he had snapped at me, harsh and curt, but not over something as small as mumbling; it was more over me bumping him repeatedly and causing him to cut himself or me hesitating and fucking up the meat. Today he is…sharper, his anger on a hair trigger.

What's more, if his attitude wasn't enough of an indicator, his mere presence here with me should have been. Daryl doesn't like anyone really; like anyone or anything breathing. Our _partnership _is tentative at best, despite my continual attempts to befriend this guy-why I keep trying is beyond me-so him actually agreeing to stay down here with me should have been kind of a red flag. The cogs of my brain turn as I try to reason why he did agree. In reality, I first assumed he'd just walk off, no matter what I said, in pursuit of the silence that only isolation seemed to bring him. But he didn't; he stayed. Why? I think about why he had come down here in the first place, why he is so pissed, and a notion comes to me, weak and fragile, but the more I think about it…the more it starts to make sense.

I might be wrong, there is a high probability that I am, but I think…I think maybe Daryl just didn't want to be alone? Maybe? Truthfully, he almost always is. I mean sure, there's Merle, but even if Daryl is his younger brother, I don't see the two of them really sitting down and shooting the shit for fun. And besides the racist, drug addict son of a bitch, who else does Daryl have to talk to? The squirrels?

Additionally, the memory of what Daryl had said about looking for some silence comes to me and I think… maybe…what he had meant was…_peace. _He was just looking for some peace _and _quiet. A place where kids weren't screaming and people weren't up in his face 24/7. And, I'm really going out on a limb here but, perhaps, more than just silence, Daryl also was looking for...some_one_ that didn't get on his last nerve; that didn't yell at him like Shane, or demand things like Lori had, or just piss him off like I am so _sure _Merle does without even fucking trying. Just someone that…didn't _expect _something from him.

And here he is…sitting next to _me._

That the person to fit this description might be me, because really, if I think about it, I'm the only one that doesn't expect Daryl to be the hunter and the provider or anything else really, besides just the smallest bit of decent towards me…the thought kind of makes me feel just the slightest but…happy.

I don't know why that is.

Unbeknownst to me, I've been staring at Daryl the entire time this revelation took place and the hunter must have felt my eyes on him because suddenly, he snaps his gaze towards me, blue orbs zeroing in on my face. I haven't been doing anything _wrong _per se but still, the second his orbs clash with mine, I immediately drop my gaze to my lap, trying to look engrossed in the _same _damn poem I've been trying to finish for the last ten minutes with mortification curling in my gut.

For a split second I think maybe I've pulled it off, that Daryl hadn't noticed I was staring at him, analyzing him, but then the bastard clears his throat and I know I've been caught. Fuck me. Tensing, I wait for him to call me out but the next words out of his mouth throw me for a loop.

"What's in that damn book of yers anyway? Ya read it like the damn Bible."

My head jerks up at his question, neck cracking and hair catching in my mouth, causing me to sputter and spit. "H…huh," I manage when I can breathe again, pushing my bothersome hair out of my face with forceful fingers. Did he just say…?

"That book," Daryl repeats gruffly, stabbing a scuffed up arrow shaft that he's picked up from his lap at me. "What's in it that make's it so damn interestin that ya fuckin talk to yerself bout it?"

My eyes fall to my lap again in confusion. _The book? _I lift my head and stare at Daryl with incredibility, thoughts thrown back to my previous contemplations, but the hunter must take my silence as something completely different because he grits his teeth and snatches up his soiled rag again. I think it's my imagination but…his cheeks look the smallest bit redder than they had been a moment ago.

"Tch never mind. Forget I-"

As he barks out the words, I snap back into focus. "N…no no no," I interrupt, waving a hand in the air frantically. "I…sorry. Your question just…caught me off guard." Way off guard. Like completely left field.

Hearing my frantic words, Daryl glances at me through the corner of his eye, just a sliver of wary and uncomfortable blue. He's silent for a moment, just staring at me. "Just askin," he mumbled and suddenly, like a defense mechanism, he's scowling again and I can see him about to get defensive and bark something at me in an effort to try and sound like his usual apathetic asshole self but I don't want that, I'm tired of that, so I interrupt him again before he can start.

"It's a journal." The words spill out of me, blurted and almost slurred, but I think they are understandable enough. I hope they are anyway. I kind of don't want to repeat it.

But when has the universe really catered to my wants?

"A journal," Daryl repeats, vocal chords drawling out the vowels nice and slow. He looks at me in disbelief. "What? Ya mean like a diary? Like lil girls write in and draw little hearts and ponies and shit?"

I color at his comparison. "No. _Not _like a diary. I'm seventeen not _seven _Daryl. I'm not a fucking little kid," I say to him and, god knows what drives me to do it, I must be brain damaged, but I fucking _stick my tongue out at him. _Like a damn five year old. Oh yeah. Not a kid at all.

Trying to cover up that embarrassing action, I decide to snap something back. "How would you even know what a diary entails Dixon?" I continue. "Have experience with one?"

Daryl just snorts at my attempted endeavor to save some of my dignity. "I ain't a sissy like yer Chinaman."

"Glenn?" I frown.

Where the hell had that come from? Why is he mentioning Glenn? "Ok one, Glenn isn't a sissy. He got out of Atlanta and manages to go there and back again unscathed," I point out, even though I didn't really condone this certain action. Risking his life like that for a few cans of…no wait. Stay on track Audrey.

"And two, he isn't _mine._"

I'm not sure why I have to clarify that.

Daryl shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Yeah whatever," he says and I narrow my eyes at him, wanting to say something more, but I think better of it and decide to let it drop.

Sighing I get back to the original matter at hand. "Anyway, as I was saying, it's not a diary. It's a _journal_." I emphasize the word, trying to differentiate.

"What's the difference?" he scoffs and I purse my lips, letting my fingers blindly curl around the leather in my lap.

What's the difference…okay that's a good question. Valid. Substantial. Well…the difference is…this journal means a lot more to me than just some random diary. It's not just some scrapbook where I wrote about my day and how _so and so_ was mean to me and other mundane, insubstantial things that teenage girls usually write about. This journal is, more than anything, a book of memories, of favorites, of everything that made me…_me. _Mom always joked that, if I ever lost my memory in some dramatic Hollywood car crash, this book would tell me everything I needed to know about myself. Funny thing is…that has never been truer than it is now. Because now, the pages are filled with dozens of poems that have spoken to me at one point of my life or another, poems that are more than likely lost, poems that tell my life in stages; now the pages hold accounts of a handful of memories that I've managed to scribble down since Dalton, memories I _never _want to forget because they are all I have left of the people I love; _now, _the pages hold the only pictures I had left of my family, wedged in between ink and paper and leather.

So…the difference between this journal that's as thick as any standard Bible and that bears so much more weight, the difference between it and just a diary is…this journal is the only sentimental thing, that's not made of steel and tainted with blood like my blades, that I have left of my past.

But I can't fucking say that. It's too deep, too personal, and seeing as Daryl is only my _partner, _it's way too intimate. So, I settle for the cut and dry, almost the truth but not quite, version of what I truly want to say.

"The difference Daryl," I reply. "Is that instead of hearts and ponies, my journal is mostly filled with writing, literature, specifically poems." Again, it's part of the truth. Most of the truth. I'm not lying in the least.

"Poems?"

I nod and turn so I'm fully facing him, neck stiff from its 90-degree angle I had forced it into to look at the man at my side. Crossing my legs Indian style, I set my journal in the cradle of my ankles. "Yes poems," I repeat. "You know, like Shakespeare, Frost, Wordsworth. I copied them down. Just my favorites though." I chuckle a bit and smile up at Daryl, trying to diffuse some of the awkwardness that's settled in my gut. "I'd need a whole library to write down even just Shakespeare's completed works. Not to mention a few new hands in the process."

Daryl's face has taken on an expression of complete disbelief and his eyes gaze at me like I just spoke a whole other language. "Ya wrote out…poems? The hell ya do somethin stupid like that?"

I shrug, not really offended by what he said because, frankly, I've heard the question many times now, if only the polite version. "Because I like a lot of poems but there was never one book where I could find my favorites. So, I decided to make my own. Kind of Audrey's Top 100 titles. It gave me something to do and…I liked it." To be honest, it's a little over a hundred titles but he doesn't need to know that.

"A hundred poems? What could be so damn good about some fancy words that ya'd take time to write 'em out when they was printed in other books?" he asks and I bite my lip at his question.

Huffing out a breath, I tugged at my hair again, strands already making their way back into my line of vision. "It's not just the words per se. It's the…emotion behind them, the story. I've always been fascinated with stories so I guess it evolved into a fascination, and a love, for literature," I answer truthfully.

The hunter in front of me still doesn't seem to get it, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing, like he's trying to see if there was something wrong with me, something wrong in the head, and I sigh, rubbing at my forehead. "Alright. Here, let me give you an example and maybe you'll see what I mean."

Dropping my gaze back to my lap, I pick up the book from its position against my ankles and flip it back open to the poem I had been previously reading; the one I had been mumbling, the one I never got to finish. The black lines jump out at me, the familiar words already lining up on my tongue, and I have a second to think _what am I doing _before they tumble off my lips.

_The earth is full of anger,_

_The seas are dark with wrath,_

_The Nations in their harness_

_Go up against our path:_

_Ere yet we loose the legions -_

_Ere yet we draw the blade,_

_Jehovah of the Thunders,_

_Lord God of Battles, aid!_

_High lust and forward bearing,_

_Proud heart, rebellious brow -_

_Deaf ear and soul uncaring,_

_We seek Thy mercy now!_

_The sinner that forswore Thee,_

_The fool that passed Thee by,_

_Our times are known before Thee -_

_Lord, grant us strength to die!_

_For those who kneel beside us_

_At altars not Thine own,_

_Who lack the lights that guide us,_

_Lord, let their faith atone!_

_If wrong we did to call them,_

_By honour bound they came;_

_Let not Thy Wrath befall them,_

_But deal to us the blame._

_From panic, pride, and terror_

_Revenge that knows no rein -_

_Light haste and lawless error,_

_Protect us yet again,_

_Cloke Thou our undeserving,_

_Make firm the shuddering breath,_

_In silence and unswerving_

_To taste Thy lesser death._

_Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,_

_Remember, reach and save_

_The soul that comes to-morrow_

_Before the God that gave!_

_Since each was born of woman,_

_For each at utter need -_

_True comrade and true foeman -_

_Madonna, intercede!_

_E'en now their vanguard gathers,_

_E'en now we face the fray -_

_As Thou didst help our fathers,_

_Help Thou our host to-day._

_Fulfilled of signs and wonders,_

_In life, in death made clear -_

_Jehovah of the Thunders,_

_Lord God of Battles, hear!_

The last invocation falls from my lips and ripples out over the water. I hadn't recited the poem very loud, no louder than the tone of voice I was using to just talk to Daryl, but for some reason the words seem to echo and linger. I continue to stare down at the poem even after the last echo has faded, my eyes glued to the title my own hand had inscribed at the top.

_Hymn Before Action by Rudyard Kipling_

For a moment, I don't even move. I'm apprehensive too because why did I just read this poem to Daryl? Why did I just read to Daryl _at all? _What am I trying to prove? But all too quickly, the silence becomes too much and I'm lifting my chin to see the hunter's reaction.

I find his blue eyes staring at me again, an arm's length away. They're bright as gems, as all blue eyes always seem to me, but his are sharp and fathomless, the deepest lake that has hidden dangers, and, try as I might, I cannot tell what he is thinking. Perhaps it is this inability to read him, to gauge him, that has me blushing to the roots of my hair and ducking my head, mouth already moving to explain, to qualify, to rectify.

"A man named Rudyard Kipling wrote this, early in the 20th century," I blurt out, words muttered and fast. "It's…it's about war, which I find kind of ironic now since our lives are kind of war of the worlds." I titter out a nervous laugh but don't look up. I just keep talking, trying to get him to understand. "But what I like about it, aside from the nice rhythm, is the emotion that Kipling put into the poem; the supplication and invocation. The narrator is begging God to help him and his fellow soldiers not to win, but to give them the strength to do what's right and, if nothing else, to give them the strength to die. I…I find the poem very…brave."

All my feelings and analysis of this poem that I've read over a million times...all vomited out in nearly one breath. When I'm done, Daryl doesn't say anything. Again. The crushing silence is the only answer I receive at first. But then Daryl makes a noise in the back of his throat, like an aborted scoff, and I look up at him through the fringes of my hair.

I still can't tell what he's thinking but his eyes aren't so…flat anymore. There is emotion behind them, waves on the water, and then Daryl's lips twitch is something akin to, a diluted, watered down version of…disdain? Oh fuck. I'm waiting for Daryl to say something hateful now, something mocking about my literature choice, but he doesn't.

Instead, his eyes just fall to the book still resting in my hands and he says, "That guy was an idiot. Bravery ain't dyin. It's fuckin livin."

"_Bravery ain't dyin. It's fuckin livin." _

Surprise makes my jaw fall open, gaping as my eyes bulge, Daryl's comment ringing in my ears. That was…that wasn't what I was expecting. A sneer, a jeer, sure. But not an honest to god comment…not an honest to god _opinion._ About the _poem_. Even if his opinion is different than mine…he actually gave his opinion. The fact fails to compute for a moment.

" 'Sides," Daryl continues and then his eyes are on mine again, commanding my attention. "Why's the dumb ass prayin to God when he has a war to fight? He shoulda been tryin to kill his enemies instead of cryin to someone who ain't there."

I stutter for a moment, trying to find my voice, trying to find the words to respond in my scrambled brain. "I…well…h…Kipling lived in a different time," I'm finally able to get out. "In his time, nearly everyone was religious as religion was a key part of life."

I sound like I'm regurgitating my history book but I can't find it in myself to care at the moment. Daryl and I are actually having a conversation. That isn't involving skinning techniques or me trying to calm him down. The fact is flooring me.

Daryl makes a noncommittal noise and licks the chapped skin of his lips. "Whatever. Still makes him an idiot. Tch. And that all ya got in there kid," he asks roughly, jerking his chin at my book. "Christ, it _is_ a Bible."

A part of me feels the slightest bit offended, Kipling was a great writer after all and one of my favorites, but another part of me, a _larger _part of me feels kind of…giddy because Daryl's _joking _with me, in the loosest of terms, and we aren't at each other's throats. Talk about progress.

Returning to our conversation, I respond to Daryl's statement. "It's not a Bible," I tell him with a slight frown on my lips. "Not every poem is religious Daryl. This one just happened to be."

The man before me continues to look unconvinced, unimpressed. "And the rest are sappy love shit right?" he mocks and I narrow my eyes at him.

"_No. _I have all kinds of different writings in here. Over a hundred. Pieces about war and loss and power. You name it. Hell, I bet I could even find something _you'd _like Daryl Dixon."

I don't know why I said that last sentence; it just kind of slipped out. It's more bravado than anything, cocky words to make him shut up, because I don't know if I _could _find something Daryl identified with. I mean, prior to this point, has Daryl even _read _a poem? What's more, why would I even want to? The thought rings in my head for a moment and multiple answers jump to the forefront of my mind. Ok…maybe I just want to prove him wrong about something. The prick's always so self-satisfied, a little bit at least. And maybe, just a little bit, I want to prove to…someone, myself, _him, _that Daryl isn't some redneck, inbred hick. I think I've caught a glimpse of something deeper in him, that pity in his eyes the first day we met still haunts me. Why it's important to me…I'm not entirely sure but I _think _it has something to do with…with Sensei to be honest, Sensei and I and something he said to me a _long _time ago.

However, proving that is easier said than done and I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew with my smug statement. But I can't recant or retract my statement and the son of a bitch knows it. I can tell in the arch of his eyebrow, the taunting tilt of his lips, the cocky air about him.

"Yeah right kid," he sneers. "Ya'd be better off gettin Walsh in a goddamn tutu."

Oh really? All right. Fuck it. Something perks up in me at Daryl's statement, a part of Audrey Bennett that has never liked, never accepted, being told what she could or could not do. Smirking, I snap my journal shut, waving it in front of his face as I cast caution to the wind.

"Sounds like a bet Dixon. You willing to wager?"

Daryl scoffs and shakes his head, acting like he's dismissing me as he drops his gaze to the arrow in his hand, sighting along the shaft as he drags his rag along it. "Ain't a wager. I'm tellin ya," he drawls. "Ya won't be able to find no _poem _I like. I ain't a pussy."

Pursing my lips, I lean forward without thinking and push Daryl's arrow down, making his eyes snap back up to mine, making him look at me. "I didn't say you were. And poetry won't emasculate you all right? I still bet you I can find one, just _one, _that you can like."

Daryl meets my gaze unflinchingly and he seems to be weighing my words. It's the telltale smirk a few seconds later, the one that yanks up one side of his mouth and accentuates the mole on the left side of his upper lip, that gives him away.

"Fine," he concedes. "What are the stakes?"

Unbelieving that he has actually agreed, I don't think about the next words before I've already said them. "Doesn't matter. Winner's choice."

Wait. Oh shit. What did I just say! A little voice in the back at my head starts screaming for a _full reverse Captain _but I'm already charging ahead. I just hope this isn't Titanic 2.

The laugh that Daryl barks out is a smidge mean and sounds like he thinks he's already won. "Ya've got yerself a deal kid," he says and he jerks his arrow out from the hand that still has it pinned to the rock below us. "But just so ya know, bein nice to me doesn't mean I'ma go easier on ya when I win."

His words cause an involuntary shiver to run down my spine, for a reason I can't name, but a force myself to match his smirk. "We'll see about that."

You better watch yourself Daryl Dixon. I always liked a challenge.

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><p><strong>TBC. <strong>

**A/N: And there was chapter 11. Personally, I really liked this chapter because Audrey and Daryl are finally building some rapport so yay :D **

**But my thoughts don't matter. I want to know YOUR'S so please press the pretty little button below and review **

**OH! And TWD finale…I can't believe it's already here! D: What am I supposed to do for the next 8 MONTHS? DX Lol well I guess it will give me ample time to catch this story up to the end of season 2 but still…surviving this next 8 months is going to be .EARTH. T.T**

**Until next time guys!**

**~Shadows**

**P.S.: Hey my friend has a TWD story called **_**Cold Hearted **_**It's pretty damn good so please go check it out and show some love in review form.**

**P.P.S.: Ack! I forgot to tell you! I met Norman Reedus (and Sean Patrick Flanery if anyone knows who that is) last Sunday! :D It was literally the best day of my life X) Lmao. He is just the sweetest person in the world and, despite the fact that I was probably shaking like I was on meth (I can't really remember if I was because I was so nervous and happy xD) he agreed to take a lot of pics with me The pictures are like gold to me now lol. But anyways, that's the quick story of the best day of my life If you want to fangirl more with me, feel free to send me a PM and I will go play by play with you xD**

**Sorry for the long A/N. I'm really done now **


	12. Loose Lips Sink Ships

**Sorry for the long wait :P I had a hectic two weeks. Also, i was hit with MAJOR writers block for this chapter, which is why it's a lot shorter than some others and a lot more crappy T.T BUT, i promise next chapter will be a lot better! :D We are almost to season canon :) Excited .**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter anyway and please remember to review! :D Seriously. Review. A few words makes a lot of difference. :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing and I am sad.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 12: Loose Lips Sink Ships<strong>

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><p>The phrase "famous last words" has never come back to bite me in the ass so hard.<p>

"What did you think about that one," I ask after I've read the final lines of yet another poem. I've said this phrase only a few times but already it's beginning to feel redundant.

"I think I'm gonna win this bet if that's the only shit ya got."

And that fucking response is becoming a little more than tedious if I do say so myself.

Huffing, I snap my journal shut, closing the Dickinson poem I had just read, and drop it into my lap, simultaneously dropping my chin into my hand. "You just have to be difficult don't you," I pout, reaching down with my other hand and twining my fingers in the grass. The blades are dry and dead against my skin and they crumble easily, disintegrating into dust.

Daryl scoffs under his breath and his blue eyes drift down to where I'm sitting in the grass, clear, blue, and striking. As always. "Yer the one who won't give up. Talk bout fuckin difficult," he drawls back to me and I frown.

"I'm not giving up because I'm going to win Dixon, and make you eat your fucking words." Or at least I hope I'm going to win. I used to be pretty confident. After the success I've been experiencing, that is _none_, I'm beginning to lose a little faith.

The hunter shakes his head and goes back to cleaning his crossbow, hands already slick with dirt and grease as he checks over every inch of his weapon. "Whatever. Why don't ya make yerself useless kid and stop fuckin around with yer diary?"

Furrowing my brow, I rip up the grass I've been plucking at and throw it in his direction. I'm splayed out on my ass a few feet from the stump that Daryl's claimed as his seat so the dead blades don't go very far, just arch up for an instant and then float harmlessly to the forest floor. "I thought we established it's not a diary," I mutter. "And what do you suppose I do? Take up basket weaving?"

My question is a bit on the sarcastic side but I really don't know what Daryl wants from me. Just today I took an early morning watch shift, then checked the perimeter alarms (i.e. the cans on strings), gave Carl and Sophia their lesson, and went down to the quarry with Shane to refill the water jugs. And that's not to mention all the shit I've done with Daryl. The checking the traps, the skinning, the cleaning, hell we just finished the last rabbit like fifteen minutes ago. It was only after we laid out the last critter to dry and Daryl pulled his crossbow across his lap to clean that I even thought to take out my journal, tucked into the little backpack that Glenn had brought back for me on his last trip to Atlanta. It's not as sturdy as the hiking pack I have in my tent but it's a lot smaller and a lot less heavy.

Daryl casts me a deadpan stare out of the corner of his eye and I cock an eyebrow at him in challenge. When he doesn't say anything, because really he _can't_ say anything, I've been as useful as I can fucking be thank you very much, I smirk up at him in triumph, leaning back to lounge on my hands.

"Want to know what I think?" I ask, still smirking up at him.

"No."

I ignore his comment. "I think," I drawl out, shifting forward so I'm closer to him, within arms reach even if I'm still on the floor. He doesn't look at me, but I know he sees me draw closer and he leans slightly away. "I think you don't want me to read any more because you're scared I'm going to find a poem you like and you'll lose our little wager."

The hand that's cradling the nearly 8-inch hunting knife, edge pressed against the string of the crossbow as it snips off wayward strands, comes to a complete halt. Daryl lift's his head and the look in his eyes is a little more than peeved as the silence stretches thin between us. We say nothing, just continue our stare off, his piercing blue against my green, and I, try as I might, I can't help but to begin to fidget under his glare, rubbing at the almost healed scratches on my cheeks. After an endless moment, Daryl just shakes his head and growls something under breath before going back to his crossbow, dirt crusted hands rubbing against his filthy jeans before setting back to work.

Frowning, I lean forward and tilt my head to the side. "What was that?" I ask.

He doesn't even look up when he replies, short and curt. "Said I shoulda left yer ass in the woods. Lot more quiet if I had. Lot less trouble too."

I roll my eyes as I sit back, picking up my journal again. "Oh please. You say that but we both know I'm more help than hinder," I tell him, inching out my foot to nudge the drying rack in front of me so it rattles and reminds Daryl of how much I've helped him do. He ignores me again and, when it becomes clear that he is immersed in his crossbow, I sigh and stretch out in the grass once more, flicking open my journal to a random page, eyes scouring the lines for something, _anything, _that will make me win this bet and put Mr. Dixon in his place.

It's been five days since Daryl and I began our little wager. However, the day the earth stood still, as I like to call it because really how the fuck I even got Daryl to agree to this I will _never _know, I hadn't been able to truly start our challenge. Enough time had passed since I had slipped away from camp that people had begun to miss me. Namely Dale I think. He's always so worried about everything. It kind of annoys Amy and I, we aren't children that need to be watched every minute of the day, but I have to admit I also find his concern a little endearing. The world's a pretty fucked up place, even before all this walking dead shit, so seeing a little care and compassion, even if it was a tad bit forward, was a refreshing sight. Either way, _someone_ had began to worry, so a small search party had been dispatched to find me not ten minutes after Daryl and I metaphorically shook hands, driving their way down to the quarry before I could even pick _one _poem, alerting us to their approach the second they started down the dirt road.

Though a little inconvenient, I hadn't really been all that bothered by their approach. I knew it had been coming and, that way, I didn't have to walk all the way back to camp. The stroll _down _wasn't all that hard but he trek back **up** was a whole other story. Daryl, on the other hand, had literally cursed up a storm, jumping down off the rock we had been sitting on like it was on fire. I had frowned at him, opening my mouth to ask what was wrong, but he had beaten me to the punch, blue eyes glaring at the road as he growled about how he'd seen enough of Shane that day and that he didn't need the "sumbitch" telling him to stay the fuck away from me again.

The accidental admission, I'm sure it was accidental because Daryl had been muttering all kinds of shit to himself, had kind of floored me for a moment. Shane had said _that_ to Daryl? When? Then I had thought, well no fucking wonder the hunter had been such a stubborn asshole any time I had tried to talk to him! And, what was more, I couldn't help but be _pissed _at Shane because who the fuck did he think he was? He wasn't my father, my goddamn husband. Who the fuck was he to dictate to whom I could and could not talk?

In hindsight, I can kind of see Shane's point. Daryl has almost killed me…on multiple occasions. All on accident but I guess that's beside the point.

But, at the time, I was _livid _and my overall annoyance, to put it lightly, had blinded me for a few seconds because, the next thing I knew, Daryl was already gone from my side. I had blinked at the spot he used to occupy and then spun to see him nearly to the tree line already, crossbow slung across his back as he marched his way across the gravel. He had almost been out of sight before I called out to him, making him halt in his steps and glance over his shoulder at me. I don't know why I had to stop him, I would more than likely have seen him later that day, back at camp or something, but, for some reason, I couldn't let him leave on that note. Not without saying some else, something more, a confirmation, an affirmation. So, with the noise of my search team echoing down the road, I had lifted my hand at waved at Daryl, smiling as I said, "See ya later Dixon! Next time you see me, I'll be winning our bet!" The hunter had stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowed and I almost put my hand done in embarrassment because I thought he wasn't going to react but then he smirked, albeit a small one, and shook his head before slipping back into the woods. It was like he had never even been there.

Shane had barreled unto the scene not five seconds later, spraying pebbles and dirt with the tires of his Jeep. Morales had been with him and jumped out to meet me half way as I gathered my things and made my way towards them. His warm brown eyes were relieved when he had asked me where I had been and told me how everyone's been really worried, and if I was ok; the whole nine yards. I had apologized politely, telling him I had lost track of time, but really, I wasn't the least bit sorry. Even when Shane started up on his _you need to be more careful _speech, all I could do was look over his shoulder at the spot Daryl had disappeared into the woods with a smile on my face because, even if he hadn't said anything, I had gotten all the confirmation I needed.

Since that day, Daryl's actually honored our agreement. As much as he could anyway. After all, there was still hunting to be done and checking the traps and then cleaning anything that was brought back. That wasn't to mention all the chores _I _had to get done, like the laundry and the cooking, ever since people learned I could cook, which I kind of had to learn how to do at an early age, I've found myself at the campfire more and more often, and also my lessons with Carl and Sophia. It was hard pressed to find a spare moment to share in between all that shit.

And then…there was Merle. Merle fucking Dixon, grade A douche bag, the bane of my _existence…_had decided to try and make himself _useful. _If the world hadn't already ended I would have proclaimed the inevitable apocalypse. For the last few days, he'd been going out with Daryl on hunts and then dragging his younger brother back to their tent to skin and clean, gluing himself to Daryl's side, barely letting him leave his sight. At first I had thought that maybe, just fucking maybe, Merle had finally manned the fuck up and made the decision to pull his own weight, treat his brother like an equal instead of a fucking lackey, and he _did _treat Daryl like a lackey, even I could see that despite the few weeks I've been here. Stranger things had happened after all.

It wasn't until yesterday, however, when I had been walking around camp collecting laundry for the bi-weekly run, that I had discovered the truth.

I had just been passing Jim's tent, who resides at the edge of camp, making to turn around and walk back towards the RV, when suddenly, Merle was _right fucking there, _up in my face, my eyes level with his exposed and grungy chest. Startled, because I hadn't even heard him walk up, I had silently sneered at the older man to mask my surprise and made to go around him. He cut me off. I frowned, the hairs on the back of my neck rising, and tried again but he wouldn't move. Fed up, I jerked my head to glare at him, tell him to _move _and that I didn't have time for his shit, but he didn't even give me the time to breathe before he was inches away from me, stale, liquor tainted breath slamming into my face with all the elegance of a semi-truck.

It was all so sudden I couldn't even react.

"Ya stay the fuck away from my baby brother ya hear?" he had growled in my face without preamble, voice low and deep and barely audible. His words, when they processed, sent a chill up my spine and I had tried to stumble back but he wasn't finished, catching my wrist with an iron crushing grip and tugging me back. A primal fear, one that I learned long ago to control but that still roiled in my stomach like a nest of snakes, awoke in me as I struggled in Merle's grasp. I couldn't let him see it though; it would be like letting a shark smell blood. Lethal. So, instead, I bared my teeth and stepped closer to him instead of away, even as my knees shook in my jeans, even as the blood sang in my veins, even as the fight or flight response in me was screaming to go for the latter. It was all instinct that forced the words off my tongue. Action and reaction. Reflex.

"I don't know what you're talking about Dixon. Now let the fuck go of me." Growling, I had yanked on my wrist again for emphasis. He only tightened his grip.

"Don't you lie to old Merle now," he had said, a cruel and sadistic smile tugging at his lips. Somehow, it had been worse than the scowl he had been previously wearing. "I've seen the two of ya, sneakin 'round like I can't see ya. Off into the woods. Down to the quarry."

He knew. The realization had made my stomach drop out from under me because, out of everyone, Merle was the _one _person Daryl and I had tried to keep our…_partnership _from. Caught red handed, I had seen no use in lying. "Someone has to help Daryl out," I had told him, words bitter and acidic. "And it's not like your worthless ass was doing anything but snorting more holes into your brain." The words had been stupid, childishly antagonizing, but I couldn't help them. They were reflexive, like Glenn's perpetual smile and Daryl's perpetual scowl.

But they had enraged Merle all the same. Snarling, he had wrenched me forward until I collided with his chest, fingers digging so hard into my wrist I could feel the bones creaking together. The pain had torn a gasp from my as Merle loomed over me, blocking out the sun as he stooped low to whisper in my face, steal my air.

"Ya best mind yer manners sweet cheeks. Just cuz some cop's sweet on ya, or that ya can wave some steel 'round, don't mean shit to me," he had growled out. There had been a feral look in his blue eyes that were so like Daryl's and yet so different, and sweat beaded on his brow, his upper lip, catching in the stubble on his cheeks. I had tried to hide the fact that my heart was beating out of my chest as I was pressed against him, my skin crawling from the sensation.

"Merle. Let me _go," _I had repeated, voice surprisingly strong. I had yearned to reach back and yank out my katana but Merle had my right arm in his grasp and my left one was pinned between us. I could have fought my way out of his clutches but that would have caused a scene and I didn't want that. I could deal with Merle Dixon on my own. Or so I had thought. "_Now."_

The large redneck's glare had been molten and crazed, and I could see the cogs turning in his mind. There had been a split instant where I thought I saw something in his eyes, something evil, _murderous, _but then his grip had loosened and I thought I had been free. However, before I could jerk away, he snapped me back, a sadistic game of tug of war, and snarled his last words right in my ear, chapped skin grating against my own.

"I spent my whole life tryin to make a man outta him and I ain't gonna let ya fuck that up. I catch you with him again, sugar tits, I'll cut yer throat nice and slow and be outta here 'fore yer lil lap dog cop can do shit 'bout it."

With that final threat ringing in my head, Merle had shoved back, sending me stumbling, and continued on his way, casting me one last glare as he spat on my shoes.

To say I had been shaken…would be an understatement. I had tottered back to the RV on rubber legs, heart in my throat and lungs contracted to the size of raisins. In the back of my mind, I had berated myself for reacting like that. It hadn't been my first death threat, not by a **long** shot, but…Merle was such a loose fucking cannon that it unnerved me.

At least _Before_, when I had dealt with shit like this, I had known, had learned _very _fucking quickly, what to do in order to avoid pissing Mitch off. Granted, there were those nights, his drunken nights, or days when he was just fucking pissed for no reason that I couldn't plan for, couldn't account for, and I had paid the price. But, by the by, Mitch had been predictable, however horrible that sounds.

Merle now…he is too drugged out for me to get his number, too much of an unknown variable for me to even _begin _to guess his next move. His calling me out about Daryl was testament to that. I hadn't even known Merle _knew _that Daryl and I had talked. The fact that Merle had somehow seen us, _stalked_ us, like I was something akin to prey, made my skin crawl.

Needless to say, I had been a distracted mess the rest of the day. Merle had plagued me every moment; during laundry duty, during lunch, my lesson with Carl and Sophia. I couldn't get him out of my head and, what was worse, I didn't know what to do.

Merle's threat, I _knew, _was anything but empty. He wasn't like that. If he said he would kill me…then he would. I could see it in his eyes, in the predatory edge of his expression. I had once thought that men like Merle had come into their heyday the moment the dead began to rise. I never knew how right I had been until now. And there was nothing _anyone_ else could do about it. If Merle made up his mind to kill me, he could sneak into my tent in the middle of the night and slit my throat like he said, perhaps even killing Abby and Lina, my tent mates, on the way out as a way to amuse himself. He'd be gone before dawn broke, towing Daryl along with him through the woods that they were born into, not an ounce of remorse in him.

That's why, on a logical level, I knew I should just do what he said. Just steer clear of him and his brother. I barely knew them, barely knew Daryl, and the hunter had managed before me and he could manage again. He didn't _need _my help and I shouldn't risk my life over something so inane and stupid.

The problem was…I didn't _want_ to surrender to Merle; my whole _being _rebelled against the idea. Bowing to his commands just made me seem like some weak little bitch that he could push around and that was _not _me. Not anymore. And what was more, if Daryl and I wanted to spend time together, if we wanted to be friends-partners _what the fuck ever_-Daryl was a big fucking boy. He could make his own decisions. But then that thought had aroused the question of…if Merle had said shit to me, had he also spoken to Daryl? And if he _had _spoken to Daryl, warned him against me…would Daryl _listen? _Just ignore everything, all the words that have passed between us, all my attempts at rapport and all that shit, and just become Merle fucking Jr?

The thoughts had haunted me all day and, between the thought of Merle killing me and Daryl not caring if he killed me, I could barely see straight.

It had been about an hour before dinner yesterday, just as I was washing up to help cook, when I saw him. He wasn't doing anything, not even moving. He was just standing in my peripherals, a constant, niggling presence. After some minutes of only half listening to Jacqui talk, I had finally cast a sideways glance at him, hiding behind the fringes of my hair. He was half hidden in the overgrowth of the trees, the undergrowth of the forest, but he met my eyes across the distance and I found myself staring, head slightly tilted and brow furrowed.A beat had passed, then two, his eyes latched unto mine, before he cocked his head back, just the tiniest faction, and turned around, disappearing into the woods. Just like that.

Something in me had screamed to just duck my head and turn back to Jacqui, just smile and nod and laugh and cook dinner like I was meant to. But I couldn't, I felt like something was pulling me after him, tugging me into the trees. In my mind I had told myself, it was only to tell him to stay away from me, to break whatever stupid…_partnership_ we had before Merle broke my neck. A small voice in the back of my head had tried to add something else to my reasoning but I shut it out, shut it down, and, before I knew it, I had politely excused myself from the wash bin, smiling as I told Jacqui I needed to grab something from my tent. I had followed him as quickly as I could, just a few minutes behind,wandering around camp for a few minutes before slipping away when no one was looking.

I hadn't made it fifty yards into the woods before I ran headlong into Daryl, rounding a tree and crashing into his chest. A yelp had forced its way out of my throat as I stumbled back, hand automatically twitching up to find the hilt of my katana.

Daryl had cocked a condescending eyebrow at me, not even bothering to reach out and catch me as I tripped over my own feet. "Took ya long 'nough," he had groused, a long stalk of grass bobbing from his lips, half gnawed. Frowning, I had opened my mouth to retort, something witty and biting and reflexive but, before I could, the bobbing strand of grass flickered and, just for an instant, turned into a half smoked cigarette as Daryl's sky blue eyes, with their ring of hazel around the pupil, flashed to the slate, opaque blue, of his brother's.

_Merle. _

The thought had taken my breath away and confusion mixed with fear burned under my skin. Fuck. "_What am I doing here?" _I had thought. "_What was __**Daryl **__doing here?"_

A hundred explanations had jumped to the forefront of my mind, each half finished and half cocked. Had Merle already talked to him? Was he here to tell me to fuck off? Wasn't I here for the same? So should I say it first or wait for him? Why was this even a big deal?

As my mind ran its frantic marathon, Daryl had shifted in front of me, boots crunching in the leaves and grabbing my attention. He had taken a few steps away from me when I wasn't paying attention and was pinning me with an almost expectant look that had bewildered me. When I had continued to stare at him, lips pursed and brow furrowed, he had huffed and fidgeted, adjusting the strap of his crossbow.

"Ya comin or what?" he had finally asked, jerking his chin over his shoulder, down towards the quarry.

The question had not computed for a moment, the neurons in my brain misfiring because, out of all the things I had expected him to say, that had not been one of them.

"Wh…what?" My voice had been wavering and high pitched as I stammered, seemingly overly loud in the forest, even above the din of the cicadas. Daryl had stared at me with an inscrutable look, eyes never leaving my face, before spitting his strand of grass to the side.

"Tch. Ya give up already kid? Made this too fuckin easy."

It took me a second, the impulses to jump from neuron to neuron and make the connection, but I finally got it.

"The bet? You're talking about the bet?" I had nearly demanded. It had not made sense. Why was he even mentioning if it, for all intents and purposes, was now null and void?

Daryl had frowned at me and folded in arms across his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits. His posture had been hunched and defensive, guarded. "The hell else would I be talkin bout? Ya think I'd drag you out here just to _talk?"_

I had refrained from pointing out that we _were _just talking. "No I just…" The words had wrestled around in my throat and I had debated if I should just let sleeping dogs lie. However, the question had been burning a hole through my tongue and I just blurted it out, dying to get them out of me.

"Did Merle talk to you?"

The second I had said the words I was equally glad I had and desperate to take them back. But I couldn't retract them because Daryl had heard and a certain sharp edge suddenly entered into his expression, into his voice when he responded.

"No," he had said, tone as sharp as glass. He was always so defensive of his brother. I couldn't fathom why or what Merle had done to earn such loyalty. "Why?"

For a moment, I had thought that perhaps Daryl had been fucking with me, wanting me to bring up his brother's bastard ultimatum and thereby just embarrass me further. For a moment, I thought that perhaps Daryl was more like his brother than I had realized.

But, as I had looked into his face, into his eyes with uncertainty flickering in their depths, accompanied by the ever-lurking undercurrent of anger hidden in the lines and planes of his face, I had realized…Merle hadn't said _anything _to him.

He had only talked to _me. _**  
><strong>

The epiphany had rocked me back onto my heels; my mind spun with the implications. I was the only one who knew of Merle's ultimatum. That meant…what ever happened, whether I obeyed or defied Merle…it was to be _my _choice. Not Daryl's. _I _knew the consequences. _I _knew the stakes. _I _was the one who could, **would, **be hurt. The ball was in _my_ court.

If I was any kind of smart, I would have just shaken my head in that instant, said something Dixonesque, harsh and curt and acidic, before turning right around and heading back to camp. I would have cut my losses and washed my hands of Daryl, just like I _should _have done after I thanked him for bringing me to camp, the only thing I've ever owed him, and where our interactions _should _have stopped. But, thing is, I'm not any kind of smart.I am a fucking idiot, stubborn and prideful, and lacking any type of ability to keep a status quo that I did not like, even if it was to my benefit.

And it was because I am an idiot, foolish and moronic, that I had grinned at Daryl yesterday, making my decision, nailing my coffin shut, before slipping past him, reaching into my backpack that I always kept on me to wave my journal in his face. It was because I am an idiot that I mockingly called back to him, taunting him as I said that I had just the thing to win _our _little bet. It is because I am so fucking imbecilic…that even when our first twenty-minute meeting yesterday, the scarce time we had before the dinner bell rang, did not end in success on my part, that I met Daryl again. And again. That I agreed to go hunting with him today and sat with him to skin and am _still _sitting here now, paging through my journal, looking for a piece of writing that will speak to one Daryl Dixon.

I haven't forgotten what Merle said. Not by _any _stretch of the imagination. In the back of my mind, I still feel the fear; I still acknowledge the fact that I've pitted myself against a Meth addicted, racist, violent bear of a man. Why Merle hates me, why he sees me as such a threat, I still can't understand.

Ok, that's somewhat of a lie. Perhaps, I do understand, to some degree. Merle's words from yesterday circle a drain in my head, over and over again, a broken record.

"_I spent my whole life tryin to make a man outta him and I ain't gonna let ya fuck that up…"_

I've never thought that I was a genius. I got decent grades in school, my best being in my English classes, but I was never going to be valedictorian. However, there was one thing I always prided myself on and that was reading people. It's not an exact science and I'm not saying I can read people's minds. It's just, over the years, given my past, I've developed the skill to look past people's words and see the ulterior motives underneath. Most of the time anyway. Some people are still difficult to get a number on but Merle Dixon is _not _one of them. He's arrogant and volatile but there isn't much mystery about him. He is pretty much an open book when it comes to his emotions. And the emotion that is most directed at me, since my second day in camp, in every word, every glance he's cast my way, is hatred. He's hates me, I've come to deduce after some profound contemplation, because, for some reason, he's afraid of me. I knew men like Merle. They were hateful and cruel and sadistic but they were never more so than when they were afraid.

He won't admit it, not even to himself, but Merle fears me. I'm not trying to sound egotistical or cocky, just observant. I've _seen _it, underneath the anger, lurking beneath the hatred. He fears me because, for the first time in probably his whole life, someone has stepped up to him. Has not taken his shit. Has not backed down. And not only that…but I've also undermined his control.

As I've said, I knew men like Merle. They were hateful and cruel and sadistic but they also loved, _needed, _to be in control, or at least seem like they are. And given his attitude, the cocky and invincible air about him, I think that, for a long time, Merle _has_ been in control. Maybe not of his life, certainly not of his addictions, but at the very least, of _Daryl. _His younger brother who, in the last few weeks, I've seen defer to Merle in almost everything.

That is not to say that Daryl is glued to his side and licking at his feet like some kind of fucking dog. The younger man goes off on his own, more often than not honestly, and he's not exactly an attention-seeking whore for Merle. Daryl just tends to stand in the shadows as his brother time and time again seeks the spotlight. I think that's what he's always done, just stood back and let Merle be Merle, make the decisions, call the shots, be the older brother. On occasion, Daryl will step out of his brother's looming shadow, usually to pull Merle back and keep a little order, keep blood from being spilled and stupid decisions from being made. Mostly though, he just does what Merle says. An ingrained reaction, an old habit. And now, here I am, fucking all that up. Or at least in Merle's mind I am. I'm making Daryl do something different, act different, different from what Merle has come to expect, different from what Merle has come to want or demand.

In all honesty though, I'm not making Daryl do shit. He's making his own decisions. Like I said, he's a big fucking boy. But Merle doesn't see it like that. Merle sees it that _I'm _the one 'changing' is brother, 'taking' Daryl away from him. That _I'm _the problem. His words to me yesterday are testament to that.

That's why he wants, _needs, _to be rid of me, one way or another, either by a voluntary bowing out or a forced take down. Makes no difference to him and yet it makes all the difference to me. Because I can either give Daryl up or have him taken away from me. Which sounds stupid, that I'm so distraught over this, so conflicted, because I've just met Daryl, just a few weeks ago.

But…

Lifting my eyes from the forest floor that I've been staring past for the past God knows how long, I take in Daryl's profile, the concentrated clench of his jaw, the flex of the lean muscles in his arms as he focuses on the task he has at hand. I think about how I came to be here, sitting near him, relaxing after yet another hunt. I think about the man I met in the woods, all those weeks ago, and what he and I have said to one another since then, what we have done and accomplished together.

I've known Daryl for less than a month but the thing is…as stupid as it sounds, as idiotic as it may be, I consider him just as much of a friend as Amy of Glenn. He's a different type of friend to say the least. I don't talk about asinine day-to-day happenings with him like I do with Amy or Glenn. Hell, we barely talk at all and if we do, I usually instigate it and Daryl responds with his usual one to two line replies.

But we work together, in a way, even if I don't provide much help until the animals are already dead. Quite well I might add too. And now…now we have this journal thing. Technically, it's just a bet, something shallow and done to save face on both our sides, but…it is something only we have and, to be honest again, it makes me a little happy, to just sit here, after a long days work, and read poetry to Daryl. Sounds stupid, well then again I _am_ stupid, but it's relaxing, even if Daryl shoots down everything I read with biting comments and derisive snorts. It's…nice. Just really nice.

"_Getting a bit sentimental there aren't ya?" _a part of my mind taunts and I shake my head with a self-depreciating snort. Ugh. I'm getting way too philosophical here. What is a friend? To be or not to be? Christ. Whatever happened to just a good old afternoon read?

Oh yeah. The dead started to up and walk.

Trying to shake off the oppressive and contemplative mood I've placed on myself, I turn my attention back to the journal in my lap. A dull throbbing had started up behind my eyes a few minutes ago but I do my best to ignore it. In fact, I do my best to ignore everything else but the feel of paper and ink between my fingertips. I shove the thoughts of Merle away, my impending sentence when, because it's not a question of if but _when, _he finds out I've disobeyed him. I let the thoughts of Amy, who is still upset at me by the way, fade from my mind. Carl and our lessons. Shane and his more recent critical eye. I forget it all. It isn't that hard. I've had years of practice of detachment.

Because all I am right now is a girl trying to win a fucking bet. A girl that **is going **to win a fucking bet. I still haven't decided what my winnings will be but I'll make sure it's something real good.

Suddenly, I'm just about to turn the current page I'm on when a piece catches my eye. It's small, scrawled in the corner, haphazard and crooked, and, by the atrociousness of the handwriting, I can tell I wrote this when I was much younger. But the poem itself makes me smile, grin stretched from ear to ear, and I just **have** to read this one to Daryl. This poem was _made _for him.

"Hey Daryl," I call out, biting my lip to hide my amusement. The hunter lifts his head and meets my gaze, his eyes narrowed, as I'm sure he sees the smirk I'm trying to fight.

"I got another one," I continue, waving my journal at him. "Ready to lose?"

Daryl scoffs and drops his head again, hands picking up what I realize is a makeshift, almost finish, arrow. That he just made. Fuck. How long had I been lost in my own head?

"Tch. Ya've said that the last 6 times kid. Ain't lost yet. 'm not gonna lose neither."

I make a face at his retort and wave a hand at him dismissively, ignoring the fact that he's kept count. "Yeah yeah. Anyway. Are you ready for this? It's pretty epic. One of my favorites." The effort that I'm taking to keep from bursting out laughing is astounding at this point. Daryl doesn't even spare me a glance as he continues to whittle the wooden shaft in his hands.

"That don't mean shit. But if it gets ya to shut up again, get on with it," he grunts.

Sticking my tongue out at the churlish man, I open the journal and balance it on my knees, absentmindedly tucking strands of hair away from my face so I can see. I clear my throat dramatically, lips already twitching, and begin.

"_I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. _

_Some come from ahead and some come from behind. _

_But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see. _

_Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!" (1)_

The silence that follows is deafening. It seems even the cicadas had stopped to listen. A moment passes and then another but I keep my eyes down cast because I know that if I look up I will…

"What the _fuck _was that?"

…lose it.

Unable to contain it any longer, I bust out laughing at Daryl's affronted tone. Within seconds, I'm bent over at the waist with my head against my shins, which is vastly uncomfortable given I'm sitting cross legged on the ground. The discomfort barely registers, however, as I continue to laugh hysterically, sides already aching. It takes a few minutes, but I eventually calm down enough to lift my head and face Daryl, ready to explain myself.

Only to lose it again as I catch sight of his irritated scowl and glaring eyes that, together, gave the affect of a child pouting.

"Oh…my god," I gasp out in between giggles. "I wish…you could see your face right now." I'm finding it hilarious, though, it might just be a touch of heat stroke.

Daryl doesn't find this whole situation as amusing as I do. "The hell ya just read?" he demands over the sounds of my hysteria. "Fuckin Dr. Seuss?"

The fact that he even _knows _who Dr. Seuss is, Daryl, Mr. Rough and Tumble fucking crossbow, Dixon, makes me laugh even harder, flinging me back to roll in the grass until I am _sure _my ribs are about to just snap.

I might not have won our little bet with good old Dr. Seuss, but fuck if it didn't make for a good goddamn laugh. Besides, I always have tomorrow to win.

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief, Merle Dixon wasn't stupid. People thought he was, took one look at him and labeled him redneck, inbred trash. Coupled with the drugs he took, most just wrote him off as a dimwitted fucking idiot.<p>

But he wasn't. Sure, he was easily angered, sure he was violent cuz he didn't give a fuck about nobody else but Merle. But stupid...naw that ain't him.

That's why he knew that fuckin cooze wasn't gonna listen to him. He knew by the way she sneered at him, like he was the shit on the bottom of her shoe, that she would ignore his warnin and just do what the fuck she wanted cuz she was just 'nother entitled, city, bitch.

It didn't surprise Merle that she had disregarded him. However, it _did _surprise him that she had done it so quickly. Now the bitch really _was _stupid.

Taking one last drag of his cigarette, Merle flicks the useless butt off into the trees, not givin a shit if the cherry caught fire or not. His eyes are locked on the sight in front of him, a clearing about twenty yards ahead. His lip is curled in disgust. Little miss sugar tits is there, lounging on the ground, readin from some book like it's a Sunday fuckin stroll. Merle scowls as he looks at her, eye traveling down the length of her profile. She's way too uppity and mouthy and Merle wants nothin than to shut her the fuck up but…she is a hot piece of ass he has to admit. Nice slim body, firm ass and perky tits. A pretty face too but Merle can think of a lot a better uses for that mouth of hers. Heh. His baby brother has good taste.

Speakin of Daryl, Merle tears his eyes off the girl on the ground and looks over at his kin. Daryl's hunched over on a stump not too far away, whittlin away at a piece of wood. Merle's seen him do this before, always needin something in his hands to keep him busy, whether it be skinnin some kill or cleanin that bow of his that he treats better than any women he's ever slept with. But he's different. Merle's been noticin it recently, can see it even now. The Daryl Merle knew, his lil brother, wouldn't be down here, talkin to this fuckin cunt. Merle's all for lettin loose some steam, bumpin some uglies, a good old relaxin fuck. Hell, if Merle could find a nice whore right now, he'd be off in the woods too.

But Daryl isn't fuckin the bitch. He isn't even tryin. He's just sittin there, listenin to her babble, just like he did few days ago, when she took out that book and read to him, like he was a fuckin baby. Merle doesn't understand it and it pisses him the fuck off. The cooze was doin somethin to his baby brother and he wasn't standin for it.

Suddenly, a braying laugh echoes out of the clearing and Merle zeros back in to see the bitch bent over, laughin her ass off. His eyes narrow as he hears her say somethin, the exact words mumbled by the distance. Her amusement sets off his anger, and he gnashes his teeth but the sight of Daryl makes it even worse.

The younger Dixon is watchin the kid in front of him laugh, just like Merle is. But, unlike his older brother, he doesn't look pissed or irritated. In fact, as she falls back to roll in the grass, like a goddamn dog, Merle sees Daryl smirk, a softer expression than the older man had ever seen on his face, and reaches out to jab at the bitch with the blunt edge of his shoddy arrow.

She squeals like a stuck pig, shuffling around in the dirt, and Merle can hear her expletives now as she struggles to sit up but it's Daryl laughin, honest to fuckin God _laughin, _that does it for Merle. He's had enough. Sparin one last glance at the pair in the clearin, Merle spits to the side in disgust and turns to head back to camp.

Merle Dixon wasn't fuckin stupid. And the cooze would learn this, one way or another. He'd would make sure of it.

* * *

><p><strong>(1) Dr. Seuss poem<strong>

**And there it is. Not particularly proud of this chap :/ But i wanted a bit more Daryl and Audrey interaction before we get into the season canon.**

**Also, the ending bit with Merle was different, an in-chapter change of POV but i thought it meshed...adequately :/**

**Please remember to review! :D And please remember to read my friend's story "Cold Hearted". It is really good :)**

**!READ THIS NOTE: ****All who review get to make one, _reasonable,_ suggestion for the next chapter :D I'm using this as incentive for reviews because I'm a review junkie that has no restraint x) Until next time!**

**~Shadows**


	13. When You Try Your Best But Don't Succeed

**Whoot :D Chapter 13 guys! I'm actually really excited to see what you guys think of this chapter! ^^ It's my longest yet :) Which is why it took me too weeks to post but oh well. I regret nothing. **

_**IMPORTANT **_**ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE! **

**Hope that got your attention :) Anyways, after reading through my story again, and reading some reviews from you guys, and re-watching season 1 of TWD, I've decided that 23, which is what I originally had Daryl as, was way to young. :P I had originally made him younger so his eventually relationship with Audrey wouldnt be criticized because she's so "young" but, after going through all the aformentioned stuff, i decided fuck it :) I want Daryl older and that will make their relationship all the stronger later on. So, from now on (and I've gone back to previous chapters to rectify this) Daryl is 29 going on 30. It isn't THAT big of a difference, 6 years from what i had him before, but that makes him 11-12 years older than Audrey. If this makes you uncomfortable, well I apologize but Audrey's about to turn 18 and the two of them will not be doing anything illegal before then. Still, if it bothers you, please resist from making any comments about it. I don't like flames :P **

**That's all for now :) Hope you enjoy and remember to review! :D**

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><p><strong>Chapter 13: When You Try Your Best But Don't Succeed<strong>

* * *

><p>Sometimes, it's really easy to convince myself that I'm at some kind of summer camp or that I'm on a vacation, something I've never actually experienced but have always secretly dreamed about. Like when I'm hanging out with Amy or Glenn, just shooting the shit, tugging off Glenn's cap and playing keep away or laying side by side with Amy in the grass, laughing and talking until my sides hurt and cheeks ache.<p>

Sometimes, it's real simple to pretend that Jacqui's sweet, warm voice is my Mom's, telling me to finish my food or to help her with the laundry. I just have to close my eyes and, if I think hard enough, it's like I'm back at home, doing the same old chores even if I'm outside and Jacqui is really, physically, nothing like my Mom.

Sometimes it's hard for me to remember that it's _Sophia _and _Carl _sitting across the table from me, doing their homework, and not Irina or Manny. They are nearly the same age and they are nearly just as sweet and the way they laugh and look at me…it's almost the same.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I find myself forgetting why I am here in the first place, at this quarry, in the middle of the Georgia wilderness. I forget that the dead have risen and that we are, literally, just trying to survive, day to day, and hoping to God, if there is one, that the walkers don't find us.

Sometimes…I've really disillusioned myself and sometimes…I don't even care.

But 'sometimes' is not _this _time, not now; because reality has come calling and I've crashed back down to Earth.

"What do you mean we're almost out of food?"

Glenn waves his hands frantically, checking over his shoulder to see if anyone has heard me. "Shh!" he hisses, brown eyes wide and anxious, a grimace pulling at his lips. "Not so loud! No one is supposed to know!"

The two of us are standing off to the side, closer to the road that leads to the quarry than the actual tents that make up camp. It's early in the morning, around seven or eight if something like that even matters anymore, and not many people are up and about yet. Dale's tinkering around near the RV, Jacqui's stoking the fire for breakfast, and Shane is on lookout duty, having just started dawn shift. Other than that, only a few more people are scattered across camp, just waking up and going about their business, oblivious to the fact that, _apparently, _we are on the precipice of starving to death. What a way to start the day. I kind of wish Glenn hadn't caught me on the way to the Winnebago to tell me this, secretive, covert, and looking for a friendly ear. Ignorance is bliss right?

I frown and cross my arms, glaring at Glenn in the growing morning light. "Glenn. People are kinda gonna find out when we begin to starve. This isn't something you can just hide and keep a secret." I didn't think I had to remind him that secrets are deadly nowadays; especially secrets like this. Starvation. Already, my stomach churns in anxiety and remembrance. It's been about three weeks, if not more, since I met Daryl and was introduced into camp but I can still recall, with startling clarity, the hollow ache of an empty stomach; the headaches, the fatigue, the disorientation. We haven't exactly been eating like kings and queens around here but we've had enough to be comfortable. The threat of that deep rooted ache and the mere _though_t that Carl and Sophia, not to mention Morales' kids Eliza and Louis, might experience it makes me squirm in apprehension.

Glenn rubs at the back of his neck in discomfort, looking down, to the side, up, anywhere so long as he didn't have to look me in the eye. "I know," he sighs and then he drags a hand down his face and groans. "I just…I don't want everyone to start panicking."

I check myself from pointing out that _hey __I'm __fucking panicking here thank you very much. _"How can we be out of food though?" I ask instead, something not adding up in my head. "Daryl and…um…Daryl's bringing in meat like every other day." Oops. Almost said _Daryl and I_.

Shrugging, Glenn moves to lean against a tree behind him, taking off his hat and ruffling his hair. It might be only just past dawn but already the air is arm and muggy and I can see sweat beading along his hairline. "Yeah but his catches recently haven't been as much as before. If you've noticed, our rations have gotten smaller and smaller. And it's not just Daryl's catches that are dwindling. All our canned food and other supplies are almost gone. We can't just live on a few squirrels." His lips purse and I notice how he struggles to get the next few words out. "I say we have about three days tops before we're out completely."

_Fucking A_. I barely refrain from cursing out loud.

But, now that he mentions it…Daryl's hauls _have_ been smaller recently, shrinking critter-by-critter, squirrel-by-squirrel. I had thought that maybe I was just imagining it but…seems like I wasn't as paranoid as I had first assumed. The nervous feeling in my gut grows sharper, keener, as my mind turns because if we run out of food…we won't last a week. And I'm not talking about starvation. It's just…I know enough from experience that when push comes to shove…generosity goes out the goddamn window. I shiver at the thought of all of us fighting over food, all sense of camaraderie and friendship meaningless in the face of survival. Like wild fucking animals. No one wants to admit it, everyone wants to believe they will do the noble and courageous thing in these types of situations but…underneath everything, in every single one of us, there is the basic, primal urge to survive by any means necessary. It's human and faulty but it is there nonetheless and I know that, if what Glenn says is going to happen actually does occur…that urge will come rushing to the surface, humane morals or not.

I bite my lip and step closer to Glenn, shifting so I'm propping my hip against the same tree and we are inches away from each other. Bark scrapes against my naked arms, the curve of my shoulder that my tank top exposes, forces the length of my katana roughly against my spine, and I focus on that to calm the steady the increasing rhythm of my heart. The two of us are silent for a moment, just listening to the waking birds and the sounds of camp beginning a new day. My eyes skim over the familiar area but everything is slightly blurred and hazy and my mind is drifting a million miles away, frantically wondering-

"So…what are we going to do?"

Glenn doesn't look at me for a moment, but I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw at my question, can hear the nervous drumming of his fingers against his leg. I let my head fall back against the tree trunk and wait patiently for his answer. But the silence stretches for what has to be at least three minutes, too long, and I realize Glenn has no clue what we are going to do.

Son of a bitch.

I sigh and rub at my eyes, trying to clear and simultaneously quell the pressure building behind them. Tugging at my hair with one hand, I reach out and flick the brim of Glenn's cap, making his worried, anxious eyes meet my own. He looks lost and scared and very young, even if he is trying to hide it, and a part of me feels just as afraid as he looks. All I want to do is just shell this problem off on someone else, make them bear the burden, but I learned long ago that being frightened doesn't get anything done and just hoping and praying for someone else to fix a problem or for it to fix itself just leads to disaster and disappointment. Something deep inside of me whines _why me _but I push it as deep as it will go and grit my teeth and buckle down. It's nothing more than the ghost of a memory, but the small curve of Sensei's smile flashes in my minds eye.

"Alright," I start, getting down to business even as my body yearns to just curl back up in my tent and sleep; to let someone else worry about this shit. "We can get through this. We're _going _to get through this." I don't really know if I'm trying to convince Glenn or me at this point but I put as much bravado in my voice as I can.

"How?" Glenn answers forlornly and I reach out to flick him not so lightly in the forehead. He cries out in protest but I ignore him.

"Because I said so. Now, first things first, who knows about this?"

Sighing, Glenn rubs at the red welt on his brow and tilts his head towards the RV. "Shane mostly," he says. "I think some of the others have begun to notice but Shane's the one that brings out the food to cook for meal times so he's really the only one who's seen the supplies first hand."

"Then how did you find out?" I ask, thinking maybe Glenn had snuck a look or something similarly covert and sneaky. The boy is fast so it could happen.

"Shane told me last night after dinner. He's…really worried."

But, then again, Glenn is also too innocent to be covert and sneaky.

Hold up though. My brow furrows as I process his words. "Shane _told _you? Just up and said this?" That sounds a little weird even if the man is anxious. I don't peg him as the sharing type.

Glenn just kind of nods in response, a small bob of the head, not looking at me as he toes at the dirt beneath our feet. I chew on my lip, contemplating what Glenn has just told me.

Shane _told _Glenn. My mind seizes upon that bit of information and I turn it over and over in my head, polishing it smooth, trying to turn this coal into a diamond. Shane told Glenn. I can't help but ask why _Glenn. _Not to be mean or anything, I really like Glenn. He's honest and sweet and kind and great to be around but…I just don't see him being the former cops confidant. So, why would he share this Titanic size secret with Glenn who, bless him, can't keep a secret worth shit? Why not Dale or Jim or anyone else?

Frowning, I turn my head to gaze at Shane, still perched atop the Winnebago with his pump action shot gun in hand. The former cop isn't looking this way, instead, looking out more over the camp and I follow what I assumed is his line of sight and find Lori and Carl emerging out of their tent. Carl yawns in the early light of day and Lori ruffles his hair affectionately before moving both of them over towards the growing campfire. Coming a little more awake, I watch as Carl rubs at his eyes with one hand and waves up at Shane with the other. Shane smiles and says something down to the boy, something I can't hear, before shifting and grinning down at Lori who smiles back gently in return, something warm in both of their expressions.

It came as a bit of a surprise to me, the two of them. Actually, it came as a big surprise; one I'm still trying to completely wrap my head around since I just found out yesterday. I knew that Carl looked up to Shane as a father and, one day, the boy had accidently let it slip that Shane had been his father's best friend. Now, I'm not judging Lori, I can't imagine what she went through or pretend to understand, and I'm not condemning Shane. The two of them have been nothing but kind to me, taking me in and making me feel as welcome as possible. But walking up on them…um…_together…_I could have done without that. It's been a bit difficult to look them in the eye when all I keep seeing is Shane shirtless and pressing Lori into the grass. I blame fucking Daryl, the bastard not being where he should be so I could fucking find him but anyway.

Given what I know now, I guess I can understand Shane's anxiety and need to have someone lend an ear. Being the leader of this ragtag little group is anything but easy, even I know that. Add on the worry of Carl and Lori's well being…I understand. But _Glenn. _That part still doesn't fit for me. As much as I like him, Glenn isn't exactly Shane's deputy here. The main thing he does is-

_Oh. _

I blink and suck in a breath as the realization hits me, like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. It makes sense now, why Shane told Glenn. Perfect sense. Glenn isn't co-captain here, isn't vice president or anything like that but he has an almost more important job and I don't know why I didn't see this before, the fact that Glenn wasn't coming to me to _ask _me what to do but rather _tell _me what he's **gonna** do.

"He wants you to go into the city," I say abruptly, not a question but a statement, and when I turn back to look at Glenn, the way he won't look at _me_ confirms it.

Glenn's gone into the city plenty of times, from what I've heard. Since I've been in camp, he's gone twice: once, the day after my spar with Shane and again two days after I made a truce with Daryl. Each time, he's been sent for miscellaneous necessities: medicine, 'feminine products', spare tents and, if he could find some food, that too, of course. But the list has always been relatively small and Glenn's said that he's never had to go very far into the city, mainly sticking to the outskirts to scavenge.

For a haul like this, however, the amount of food we need if we are truly almost out…the fringes aren't going to cut it. And I can see it in his curved brown eyes that he knows this too. Knows, just as well as I do, perhaps even better, that he's going to need to go deeper into Atlanta, deeper into walker territory, deeper into danger where there was a good chance he might not make it back out.

"When?" I ask.

Glenn takes off his cap and wrings it around in his hands, the faded and worn fabric clenched tight in rigid fingers. "Well…Shane thought it'd be best if I go before we're completely out," he stammers quietly. It's a nervous quality; a tick. "Ya know, kind of preemptive. Before anyone finds out or can really start asking questions or-"

"_Glenn."_

He trails off and sighs, looking up at me through one eye, the other shut in a grimace as he hunches in on himself. "Tomorrow?" he tries and I feel my eyes go wide.

I gape at him in return, sputtering even though, in the back of my mind, I had already guessed as much. "Tomorrow? So soon?"

Glenn winces like he was expecting this kind of reaction and well I guess it was a little predictable. But hell, what else am I supposed to say? First he tells me we are on the edge of starvation and then he informs that he's going on a possible suicide mission. This is way too much shit for only eight o'clock in the fucking morning.

Still wringing his cap, Glenn shifts from foot to foot and shrugs again, as if saying _what are you going to do? _And what could I do? _Nothing. _I run a frustrated hand through my hair, fingers resting at the nape of my neck and massaging the stiff muscles there. Taking several deep breaths, I close my eyes and try to concentrate, try to move past the anxiety I feel and think clearly. It's really fucking difficult.

"Ok. So tomorrow," I repeat and I'm striving to accept it. "Is it the usual? Take Abby's shitty old Pontiac, leave at dawn back by sunset?" Again, I've only seen him do this twice but Glenn is kind of a creature of habit, he likes a little order and control. I think that has something to do with the fact that, nowadays, we control just about jack shit.

Exhaling harshly, Glenn nods, equally relieved I'm not freaking out and tense over our current topic: his life. "That's what I was thinking. But I was tossing around the idea of using Mr. St James' truck. More room for supplies, less trips. I thought it would be smarter."

I might not like the idea of Glenn having to go into the heart of Atlanta but…the boy did have a knack for this planning and execution crap. "That sounds like a good idea," I say, because it really is. "But...have you asked Andrew yet?"

Here, Glenn shakes his head and looks a tad bit sheepish. "No. I uh…don't really…know what to say to him," he responds, almost guiltily, but I understand what he means.

Mr. Andrew St James is one of the older members of camp, not yet as old as Dale, but the sadness that radiates off him makes him seem decades older. I haven't said more than a few words to him, mostly just 'good morning' and 'can you hand me a fork please', but then again, he doesn't say more than a few words period. He usually just wanders around camp, listless and silent, eyes glazed over as he limps. Shane says it's because he's traumatized, though he doesn't know much more about the older man than the fact that Morales had found him a few days before he had met up with of the rest of camp. He says that Andrew must have lost someone. Personally, I think Shane is slightly wrong about that. I think Mr. St James lost a lot of someone's, if the gold ring on his left hand and the small, filthy, stuffed dog, a child's toy, he carries are any indication. Most people just leave him to his walks though, making sure to call him to meals and make sure he hasn't wandered off. He stays in his own tent, a small dated number set up beside an even older American made pick up. It's one of the bigger vehicles we have in camp, not including the Dixon's truck but I think Glenn would rather walk to Atlanta and back than try and ask Daryl, or God forbid _Merle, _to use that truck. Mr. St James is a nice enough man, a genial grandfather type figure, but the profound sorrow in his brown eyes usually acts as a deterrent for conversation.

That and, by age or by trauma, Mr. St James does not really seem to be…all there. I can see why Glenn is hesitant to ask for his truck.

"Why not just take the church van?" I inquire, gesturing over my shoulder to the long white van that Jacqui and some others had arrived in. "It's just as big, maybe even bigger, and I'm sure Jacqui will be fine letting you take it."

Glenn wrinkles his nose at my proposition and clucks his tongue. "I would but the gear shift is a little sticky on it. I don't want it crapping out in the city when…well you know. And I've already considered everyone else's cars. Shane's Jeep is too open. Abby's Pontiac is too small. The RV has to stay here. And I'm not asking the Pelletier's or the Dixon's for their vehicles. Mr. St James is kind of the only option left."

I'm a little impressed by the degree that Glenn has thought about this but then I remember that it's sort of his life on the line and I'd be thinking incessantly about it too if I were him. Still, this is going to be a little tricky and, as much as I trust Glenn's scavenging abilities, he does lack some…tact and finesse. I can just imagine the awkwardness and clumsiness he'd exude, trying to talk to Mr. St James. There's a solution of course, a very simple one, but son of a bitch. That voice inside of my head cries out again _why me?_ but I honestly stopped waiting for an answer years ago.

Clearing my throat, I look over Glenn's shoulder, considering what I'm about to say. The woods and the trees don't make it any easier, offer no alternative, so I just come out and say it. "I can ask him if you want," I offer and, even though I'm not looking at him, I can tell Glenn is stunned. Fuck, I'm kind of stunned too. Like I don't have enough crap to-no. No. Glenn is about to go to _Atlanta _for me, for all of us_. _I can do something easy and safe like this for him.

"W…what," he gapes and I roll my eyes before looking back at him, taking in his wide eyes and slack jaw.

Scoffing, I lean forward and poke him in the chest, leaving a smudge of dirt behind even though I haven't even _touched _anything this morning. "Oh don't look at me like that. It's no big deal. Mr. St James is nice just…a little lost." That was putting it lightly but I'm nothing if not generous.

Glenn continues to stare at me, uncomfortable and uncertain. "I…but…I don't want to bother you."

I wave him off with a snort, shifting my katana strap as I push off the tree we've been leaning against. "It's not a bother Glenn." Well it kind of is but I'm polite so I'll go with the little white lies.

"Besides, after what you're doing…well asking a slightly senile old man isn't so hard in comparison. I'll go see if he's up now and ask so you can plan around this. Find you later ok?" Smiling, I turn to go but Glenn's hand on my wrist stops me. I look back at him, brow furrowed, wondering what's wrong, but he pulls me into an abrupt hug before I can say anything. His arms slip around my back, warm and soft and suddenly, we're chest-to-chest, cheek-to-cheek.

"Thanks Audrey," he mutters near my ear as he clasps me tightly. He squeezes me once before letting go, not even giving me the chance to hug him back not that I think I could. I'm a bit discombobulated, words that aren't Glenn's ringing in my head. I blink and slowly shake my head, forcing a smile onto my lips.

"Don't mention it. What are friends for right?"

He smiles at me, I can tell he's really grateful, and I wave goodbye before heading back towards camp, trying not to think about the last person to hug me and the words they whispered into my ear.

* * *

><p>It doesn't take me very long to find Mr. St James.<p>

He's sitting outside of his tent, perched lightly in an old camping chair that has seen better days. I don't think he noticed me approaching; that glazed look is in his eyes again and he seems to be looking out into the forest, staring at nothing. I purse my lips and fidget a few feet away but it has been several minutes since I walked up and I can't stand here forever. Glenn needs an answer and, as always, I have a hundred other things to do today. Such is life. Taking a deep breath, I clear my throat and step forward, wiping my sweaty hands on the hem of my ratty jean shorts.

"Mr. St James," I inquire quietly and the older man blinks and turns to me slowly, as if I've just woken him from a dream. His dark brown eyes are unclear and unfocused, flat as a placid lake with nothing underneath. He smiles up at me and the affect is dreamlike, a ghost of a grin pulling at his wrinkled lips.

"Hello," he says slowly. I tentatively smile in return and take a step closer, dropping slowly to one knee so I'm not talking down to him. His eyes track my movements but in a slow and detached manner, the reaction delayed. I absentmindedly wonder how detached he really is from all this: from reality and the walkers and this sweltering, sluggish summer in the middle of the woods.

I tuck a strand behind my ear in nervousness, feeling awkward appearing before him like this. "Hi. Um…I don't know if you remember me or not but my name's Audrey." I talk softly to him, kindly, trying not to startle him. "We've spoken a few times before."

The old man blinks at me for several seconds but then nods slowly, his dreamy smile affixed and unwavering. "I remember. You are the girl who reads to those children," he says. His voice is slightly hoarse from disuse but it has an easy and drawling cadence, soothing and aged. What he said surprises me, I didn't think he would have noticed such a thing, but I nod quickly all the same.

"Y…yes. I read to Carl and Sophia."

Mr. St James hums and closes his rheumy brown eyes, still smiling. "That's nice. You're real kind to do that."

An embarrassed flush crawls up my neck and into my cheeks, making me duck my head even though he isn't looking at me. "I do my best to make things a little easier is all. It's not much though but I try," I tell him honestly.

He doesn't respond and I shift uneasily, legs cramping in the uncomfortable kneeling position I've put myself in. The silence stretches on and I think the man has forgotten I am here, having fallen back into his own mind and thoughts. That's not unusual. Over the past few months, Mrs. Davenport, my neighbor, had been doing the exact same thing, dropping off mid conversation, dazed and dreamy. I usually had to prompt her a few times to get a clear response. Frowning, I decide to just ask what I came to ask. I just don't think Mr. St James is up for casual conversation these days and, if I remember correctly, idle words just confused Mrs. Davenport more.

Biting my lip, I swallow harshly to gather some courage. "Excuse me Mr. St James." He doesn't open his eyes but I continue anyway, hoping he can at least hear me. "I came here to ask you a favor this morning. Uh…a friend of mine is going to run into town tomorrow and he needs a bigger vehicle to do so. I wanted to ask if he could use your truck, seeing as it has a lot of storage room and-"

"You remind me of my daughter Clara. "

The words are quiet, just above a whisper, slipped out like Mr. St James hadn't meant to say them, but I balk and stutter to a stop all the same. "E…excuse me?" My voice is high pitched and incredulous, hitching and stumbling over every letter. His words have thrown me for a loop. Our conversation has veered down an unexpected road, slipping down a sudden slope and I don't have time to slam on the brakes.

Mr. St James opens his eyes and I start as I see they're suddenly bright and clear, like cobwebs have been lifted off of them. He smiles at me again but this time, it's solid. It's like some switch has been flipped and he has found an island of lucidity in all that fog his mind is swathed in. "You remind me of my daughter Clara," he repeats, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. I can do nothing but gape as he continues to talk, saying more words than I have heard him speak in the last three weeks. It's like an unstoppable torrent of ideas and notions and things that he, for some reason, needs to say, needs me to hear.

"She is always helping people. Has a big ole heart. That's why she became a teacher you see; just loves those little kids." There is a loving quality to his voice, a wistfulness to his gaze, as he speaks about a daughter I can only imagine what has happened to. He's looking right at me as he says these words and, after weeks of being hazy, the intensity of his expression startles me. "You're a lot like her. Kind, smart, and beautiful too."

I wave my hands in front of me, confused and bewildered and also struck by a profound sadness. For the man before me and for the woman, the daughter, I remind him of. A woman who is most likely dead, survived by her aged and declining father who cannot come to grips with her death. "Oh, Mr. St James I'm not-"

He moves with a speed I didn't think his aged body could retain. In the blink of an eye, my hand is trapped in his and I feel the strength in frail fingers. "Don't let them take it from you understand?" he interrupts again. There is a sudden crazed fire in his eyes and I find myself trying to draw back in slight fear. "Your heart. Your heart's like Clara's. My sweet, sweet, Clara's. It sees the good in people. And the bad. You'll need your heart to live. Need it now more than ever. Listen to it ok? Above all else, listen to it and don't let them take it from you." His hand is tight around mine, demanding my attention, begging me to listen and my throat clenches as I see the tears in his brown eyes.

"Never let them take it from you…like they took it from Clara," he whispers, like a secret, like a sin.

More than a little concerned, I tug lightly at my arm, trying to extract it from his grip as easily as possible. His fervent and frantic words are unnerving me. "Mr. St James I…I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

But, the old man doesn't answer me and, like the tide receding back to sea, I watch as the intensity in his face, in his eyes, recedes. His fingers go slack and release hand, falling back to his side. He blinks, once, twice, and when he turns back to me, the hazy film has returned to his eyes and when he smiles, it's bland and vague.

"Oh," he says quietly, like he's seeing me for the first time. "Hello. Is it time for breakfast already?"

My heart is still fluttering a bewildered rhythm in my chest and my throat is still tight, head still spinning, but as I stare at him, chest heaving, I realize Mr. St James has no recollection of the past few minutes. His expression is too mild, too placid, too…lost. The man that had just spoken to me, intense passion and fire, is gone, swaddled and put back to sleep. I don't know what awakened him or why, why now, why _me_…but his words continue to ring in my ears, pecking at me, like an insistent bird. But the man in the old suit, brown jacket and matching pants, dated and old fashioned, sitting outside his old truck in a chair from another era, with spun silver for hair and glassed over marbles for eyes, does not have answers for me. He's as lost as I am.

I force a smile, as bright as I can manage, feeling the fault lines twitch at the corners of my mouth, and answer the quiet and subdued Mr. St James before me. "Um…al…almost Mr. St James," I stutter out. "Few more minutes."

He nods and turns to look back into the woods, morning light glinting off the silver wires of his hair. "Good," he murmurs but I don't know if he is talking about the breakfast or something else only he knows. "That's good."

I decide that I won't be able to get a true and coherent answer from Mr. St James right now. I might try again later, after he's eaten or something. It might not make that much of a difference but I'll try. If not, I'll ask Dale or Jim to take a look at the church van and see if they can't fix the gearshift. I'll think of something. Glenn and I will think of something.

Still a bit unnerved, I mutter a quiet goodbye to Mr. St James and withdraw from his side. When I look back, more than ten feet away, he's still staring at nothing, smile smooth and slow and I think I see his lips form the word _Clara. _I can't help but think that maybe he's not staring at _nothing_ after all and contemplate what reality _really is _if his Clara's as real to him as I am.

* * *

><p>"Hey. What were you talking to Mr. St James about?"<p>

It's a few minutes later, when I've made it to the breakfast line, that Amy sidles up to me, curious and observant as usual. We're back to normal again, our confrontation from days ago faded from memory, so I smile at her as she comes to stand behind me in line.

The old man's disconcerting words resound in my head, and I see a flash of brown eyes that aren't his, but I force myself to shrug, pushing the memories down. "Just saying good morning," I lie. "Seeing if he was hungry."

Amy pouts at me, her long blonde hair pulled back from her face in a lopsided bun, making her seem years younger than she really is. "Ugh. Why are you such a Good Samaritan Dree?" she complains, wrinkling her button nose in the process. "Reading to children, checking in on the elderly. What's next? Saving kittens from trees."

I cast her a deadpan look and open my mouth to correct her, that I'm _not _a Good Samaritan just a person with a moral compass, but someone else beats me to it.

"She did that yesterday. I'm thinking knitting us sweaters out of blades of grass and flowers is next actually."

"Oh ha ha, Glenn. You're so funny I forgot to laugh."

The young man gives me a sheepish grin as he passes me a plate of food, a meager portion of baked beans and fired…some kind of meat, I can't really tell at this point. There's an expectant look in his eyes because he _knows _why I was talking to Mr. St James but I know he won't ask my about it now; not now that everyone is in hearing distance, unsuspecting of the truth.

"Sorry," he says but I know he really isn't. I stick my tongue out at him, mouth _later _to appease his curiosity, and move to sit with everyone else around the campfire, Amy trailing along after me.

"Morning Jacqui," I say to the woman as I take a seat next to her. She smiles around a small bite and swallows.

"Good morning sweetie," she responds, scooting over to give Amy and I some more room. Not everyone has gathered yet so the large log is still pretty much empty. I set my plate on the ground and start to slip my katana and tanto off. A small tut of disapproval brings my gaze back to Jacqui and I see her frowning at me.

"What?" I say with a laugh, tucking the swords under my feet as I sit. I bend down to retrieve my food.

Jacqui just shakes her head, the small gold hoops in her ears glinting in the sun. "Child, don't you know better than to put your food on the ground? I spent good time on that this morning and you go putting it in the dirt." She sounds scolding but the minute twitches in her cheeks give her away. She's joking. At least partly.

Shrugging, I pick up a piece of meat with my fingers and plop it into my mouth, chewing obnoxiously and smacking my lips, causing Amy to squeal in disgust and smack me across the shoulder. "Ten second rule right?"

"I thought it was the five second rule," Andrea pitches in as she sits beside her sister. There's a smirk on her own mouth and amusement in her pale blue eyes, laughter in her usually stoic expression.

I blink at her. "Huh. Really? Well…that explains a lot."

A chorus of snorts sounds out all around the campfire and Amy playfully nudges my shoulder, digging into her own meal between laughs and quips. "Yeah like your filthy mouth," she jokes and I frown at her, trying to quell a chuckle as I attempt to look offended.

"What the fu-"

"_Audrey." _

Amy and I share a look that screams _oops _before I turn contritely towards Lori. She's standing at the edge of the campfire eyebrow half cocked at me and I wince in guilt, doing my best to look apologetic even though I can feeling Amy shaking with silent laughter besides me. "Ah…sorry Lori. Just kidding around," I explain, smiling my brightest to deter her scolding look.

But Lori's a mother and no amount of puppy expressions can distract her. "Well I'd appreciate it if you watch your language just the same," she says but, like Jacqui, I can see the amusement in her eyes and tell she's not really upset. I nod solemnly all the same, playing my cowed part.

"Yes ma'am."

Lori says a thank you and moves to sit down across from us, beside Carol and Sophia, Carl standing by her side. He's snickering at me, the little brat, pointing and laughing quietly, mocking me for getting in trouble. I scowl at him, conjuring up my dirtiest glare. It doesn't last for long and I end up grinning ear to ear as he comes by to say good morning.

"Hi Audrey," he gushes, plopping down at my feet with a plate of his own; a plate that I notice has slightly bigger portions than Amy's or mine. I flicker my eyes up towards the RV, where the food had been handed out, and see Shane, saying something to Dale, handing out plates and portions. I don't think I'm imagining the haggardness of his appearance, the circles under his eyes or the tired stoop of his shoulders. A part of me thinks I should be angry for his favoritism, his biased towards Lori and her son. But really, I don't blame Shane. I'd have done the same thing.

"Heya Carl." I reach out and ruffle his hair. "Sleep good?"

"Mmmhmm," he hums, shoveling food into his mouth like it's going to disappear. Something twists in me when I remember, like a flash of lightning, that it is disappearing, that it's going, going, and almost gone. Suddenly, the beans and meat taste like ash and I have trouble swallowing.

Beside me, Amy laughs at Carl's fervor, her blue eyes dancing as she reaches out and pokes the boy on the crown of his head. "Whoa! Slow down there Speed Racer. The food's not going anywhere," she laughs and I set down my fork, plate half finished, having suddenly lost my appetite. Glancing up, I look at the people gathered around to see if they had heard Amy but everyone is wrapped up in their own conversations and, if they did hear her, they show no sign of concern. Is it denial or just general ignorance they have?

Carl slurps up another spoonful of beans, swallowing hastily. "I know but Shane said he'd take me down to the quarry for a swim today," he says, excitement oozing out of his voice.

I raise my eyebrows and try to taper down my anxiety, push away the somber thoughts. "A swim?" I ask. Today of all days? I wonder if Shane's just trying to cover up or if he actually wants to do something fun for Carl. I think it might be a combination of both.

"Yeah! You guys can come too!"

He's practically bouncing where he sits, eyes wide and enthusiastic, beans smeared across the corner of his mouth. Laughing, I'm about to tell Carl I'll have to take a rain check but Lori interrupts me.

"Carl," she says sternly and I turn her to see her frowning down at her son. "What did I say about that? You only get to go _if _you finish all your chores and school work first."

The young boy groans in what sounds like pain and turns to his mom with big, blue, doe eyes and an honest to God quivering lip. He is just too fucking cute. "But Mom," he whines.

"But nothing," Lori says and then she gestures at him. "And what are you doing on the ground Carl Grimes? You know I just washed those jeans. Come sit by me and eat like a proper human being instead of a caveman."

Carl groans and makes a few grunting noises, just like a caveman, to spite his mom but one look from her has him getting to his feet anyway, dusting off his pants in the process. I giggle at his forlorn face. "You can sit here Carl. I was just getting up," I say, standing as well. He turns to me in surprise but I'm looking at his mom for approval, tilting my head with a cajoling smile. "If that's all right with you Lori."

The older woman purses her lips for a moment, like she's going to refuse, but then she sighs and waves a hand towards us in defeat. "Alright. Alright." Carl whoops for joy.

Giggling, Amy pats my empty spot. "Yay! I get to sit next to Carl," she cheers and the boy blushes slightly as he wiggles into my seat. When he's situated, he looks up at me with an expectant expression, scooting over so there's _just _enough room for me to squeeze in between him and Jacqui.

"Sit here Audrey," he says, patting the spot like Amy had done.

I grin down at him but shake my head. "I would but I have to talk to Shane real quick." Carl frowns but I ruffle his hair again. "I'll be right back; don't worry," I reassure him. He doesn't look very convinced and looks like he wants to follow me up towards the RV where Shane is but Amy clears her throat and draws his attention.

"Psh. Who needs her, right Carl?" she jokes, nudging him in the ribs with a secretive smile. "We have more fun without the old stick in the mud." I roll my eyes and turn to leave but someone stops me.

"Aren't you going to finish eating?"

The voice is quiet and slightly accented. I look back to see Miranda, Morales' wife, staring at me from the other side of Jacqui. Her children are sitting on either side of her, in ratty old chairs, Louis to her left and Eliza to her right, closest to me, perched in her father's lap. I haven't spoken much to Miranda. For what I've gathered, she's a soft-spoken woman, dedicated and fiercely protective of her family. She has a solemn face, thin and sharp, with slicked back hair and full lips but her eyes and deep and brown, kind. I smile at her, albeit a little awkwardly.

"Uh…I'm kind of finished," I say, doing my best not to fidget. "Not very hungry." Which isn't a lie. I still feel slightly sick with the knowledge Glenn has given me. I know I will be famished later but I can't force myself to take another bite.

I watch as her eyes flicker down to my barely touched plate and mine simultaneously notice her children's bone dry ones, licked clean of all food. They had gotten their rations of course, like everyone else, but there was still an edge of hunger in their eyes and distantly I wonder how much Shane has been taking from their plate to pad Carl's. Now I'm a little angry with him.

Biting my lip, I step around Jacqui, who I can feel staring at me, and move towards the Morales family. Miranda gazes up at me in question, as does her husband beside her though there's a smile on his face that's absent from hers. "I know it's not much," I say as I offer my plate towards her. "But if you'd like it…if Louis and Eliza are still hungry…you are more than welcome to it."

Miranda is silent but Morales speaks up. "We don't want to take from you chica," he laughs, shaking Eliza in his lap slightly. "Finish your food."

I grin at him, easier now, relaxed by his jovial demeanor and easy-going personality. "You're not taking anything; I'm giving it to you. And I told you I'm not that hungry. Still full from last night I guess." I shrug. "What are you going to do right?"

Morales narrows his eyes at me, still smiling, like he doesn't believe me, but when I stick my plate out towards him, he takes it from me anyway. "Alright well…thank you Audrey," he says and while he still smiles I can sense the true gratitude in his words and in his eyes. I nod in acceptance. Looking down at his daughter, Morales bounces her a bit as he scoops half of the food onto her plate and hands it to his wife who gives the rest to Louis. "What do you say Eliza?" he asks. The girl, a thin thing, with bones that reminded me of a birds and eyes like her mother's, looks up at me shyly.

"Thank," she begins but a sudden hiccup interrupts her, a motion that jerks her whole body. I blink at the sudden and unexpected response but smile all the same, trying not to laugh.

"Your welcome Eliza." The girl purses her lips and looks like she wants to try again but another round of rapid-fire hiccups cut her off. Her father laughs good-naturedly and even her mother smiles then, small but there nonetheless. She hands her daughter a bottle of water.

"Here mijita. Drink."

Eliza takes the bottle and brings it to her lips but Morales clicks his tongue at her. "Ah ah ah. Aren't you forgetting something mija?"

The young girl blinks, body jerking with a hiccup again, and opens her mouth. But, instead of responding to her father's question like I thought she was going to, she says something else instead, a snatch of lines, a group of words, like a song or a poem in a language I cannot understand.

"_El niño Jesus,_

_el ipo le dio. _

_Con cinco traigitos,_

_se le quito." (1)_

Her voice is quiet but singsong and the rhythm in which she says the words makes me think it is some kind of child's rhyme. At the end of the little limerick, Eliza takes a deep breath and then takes five quick sips of water before letting her breath out in a whoosh. Confusion must show in my expression because Morales laughs again, before pressing a kiss to the top of his daughter's head.

"It's a little saying my mom taught me as a kid to get rid of hiccups," he explains and, miraculously enough, Eliza doesn't hiccup again, calm and completely still. I can't help but feel a little amazed.

"You'll have to teach that to me some time," I say. "Hiccups are like my worst enemy. When I get them, they stay for like hours." It's true. One time, I had them for a whole day. I try not to remember the memory of getting rid of them but I hear the laughter of ghosts all the same.

Morales nods. "You got it. Come by any time for a lesson in Español niña. Our tent is always open."

Telling him I'll be sure to do that, I take my empty plate back from him, and their empty plates as well, waving them off when they offer to take them. "It's no problem," I say and I awkwardly wave an elbow at them in farewell. A chorus of thanks follows me as I pick my way back around the campfire, purposely stepping on Glenn's toes when he playful sticks his foot out as if to trip me.

Shane is gone by the time I get to the RV, probably off checking the perimeter or something like that. T-Dog, who replaced him on watch before breakfast, says he saw him walk off towards the quarry road. Oh well. I'll just have to go find him.

Against the side of the Winnebago is a large metal wash bin, which doubles as our sink and washer when it comes down to doing laundry. It's empty as of right now though, everyone still talking and exchanging good mornings. In a few minutes, when the day officially starts, it will begin to overflow and someone will have to do dishes. I'm already thinking of excuses to get out of it, it seems Amy and I get stuck with dishes a lot, because frankly, I have bigger things to deal with.

I've just set the dishes, a motley collection of faded plastic of all different colors and sizes, mind still running over excuses, when I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I whirl around on instinct, hand twitching to my bare hip as I barely restraining a high pitched yelp. The sound that does escape me is a kind of chocked off whine or whimper, like a frightened animal.

"Jesus H Christ! Could you like _breathe _or something? I fucking hate it when you do that," I gasp, scowling as I straighten.

Daryl gazes at me with something between indifference and amusement, his ice blue eyes flat and seemingly unimpressed. He's wearing another sleeveless number today, the color a dingy brown and the fabric textured with small squares. I really think that these sleeveless deals are all he owns at this point. I frown up at him, crossing my arms in front of my chest, feeling awkward in my own navy tank top. It's thick strapped and covered most of my back but I don't wear tank tops often, the scars are too noticeable, and the way that Daryl just _stares _at me, not saying a word, even if it's only in annoyance, makes me squirm like I'm under a spotlight.

"What?" I finally ask when he does nothing but stand there. I'm starting to think I might have something on my face or dribbled down the front of my shirt and a flush crawls up the back of my neck. Daryl just grunts and jerks his chin at me.

"Yer in the way," he grumbles and I flush again as I realize I'm blocking the 'sink.' I step aside quickly and he dumps his, and I'm guessing Merle's, plates in quickly, the plastics clattering and rattling together as they carelessly tumble into the bin.

"Hey," I frown, sending Daryl a disproving look, drumming my fingers against my arm. "You're gonna chip them if you do that."

Narrowed blue eyes meet mine and his lip twitches up into a sneer. "Ain't my dishes," he says, like he doesn't care. It sounds like something Merle would say.

I roll my eyes at his dickish exterior, not impressed, and not intimidated either, because I know what a smirk instead of a sneer looks like on his face and can distantly recall the sound of his laughter from two days ago, when I read Dr. Seuss and he jabbed at me with a blunted arrow. "Yeah but you still eat off them don't you? Show some fucking respect. What if I just started throwing your crossbow around huh?"

The concept is laughable, I'm pretty sure Daryl would gut me if I even tried, and that thing looks pretty heavy besides. I don't think I could chuck it ten feet.

Daryl finds my threat amusing as well because he just scoffs and turns to leave, not even dignifying me with a response. However, as he spins on heel, he bumps straight into Sophia, who neither of had noticed walk up to deposit her own dishes in the sink, trying to sidle around us without drawing attention. The young girl makes a small squeak as Daryl's body collides with her and she stumbles back several feet. The plates clatter to the ground and spin a few times in the dust before falling flat.

The silence that follows seems to echo, even with the quiet undercurrent of conversation still occurring around the campfire. Sophia has her gaze glued on the ground, eyes wide, body frozen. Daryl isn't moving either and, even though I can only see his profile, I recognize surprise on his face.

Nobody moves for several moments and I'm just beginning to shift to try and pick up the plates when Sophia and Daryl both start into action at the same time. She bends down to scoop up the fallen dishes just as he takes a step forward to do the same because, even if he tries to act like an asshole, I know Daryl wouldn't just knock over a small kid and keep walking like Merle would. If he did…well I wouldn't be here today.

However, when Daryl takes that step forward, half a step really, barely a stutter in her direction, Sophia flinches violently, shrinking away from him and ducking her head, expecting to be hit. I know she's expecting to be hit, even if I didn't know that piece of shit that she calls father. I know because I've seen that movement before, because I used to _make _that movement. I grit my teeth and want to comfort her, a wild instinct to just pull her close and protect her because she is just so damn small and vulnerable, but my attention is riveted to the man between us.

Daryl freezes at the fierce reaction and the hand that had extended to help her curls back to his side, fingers balling into a fist. I can only see the side of his face, the flat plane of his left cheek, dusted with hair, a corner of his mouth, a sliver of his eye, but I think I see something flicker in his expression, something sharp and bright. It's gone before I can try and identify it. This time, when he whirls around, the movement is aggressive and angry and he stalks rather than walks back towards his slightly segregated campsite, not looking back as his rigid spine carries him away.

I bite my lip as I look after him, half wanting to say something, but Sophia is still cowering beside me and I decide she needs my attention more. Casting one last look at Daryl's retreating back, I turn around to face Sophia, mouth open to apologize. She's still staring at the ground, her thin chest moving up and down rabidly, narrow shoulders shaking. Frowning, I reach out to touch her but my fingers have barely skimmed her fine blonde hair before she drops to her knees and scrambles to pick up the dishes.

"I'm sorry," I hear her mutter as she grabs the things closest to her. "I…I wasn't paying attention. I was just trying to put the dishes up. I…I didn't mean...didn't mean to-"

I kneel down beside her and gently put my hand over hers. She freezes again and I can feel the tremor in her muscles, the ripples of fear, but I reach out and touch her hair softly, a feather light touch and her wide eyes flicker up to meet mine.

"Sophia," I say softly and she flinches at her name like it's a bad word. I push down the conclusions of why that is. "Sophia, it's ok. It was an accident. I'm not mad." She bites her lip, white teeth against pink skin, and looks at me like she doesn't believe what I am saying. I smile at her, as friendly and kind as I can manage, and something in my face must convince her because her shoulders lose their tension and she shudders in a deep breath.

"Alright?" I ask and she nods a little. I smile a little brighter at her and wrap my fingers around a chipped plastic cup and a small plate, standing up in the process. "Come on, I'll help you put them up." The young girl doesn't smile but I can see the gratitude in her face as she slowly gets up and dusts off her knees.

The two of us move over to the wash bin a few feet away and set the dishes down gently. Dusting off my hands, I turn to Sophia. "There we go. Done and done." She giggles a little at my over enthusiastic voice but, as we stand there, I watch as her eyes skitter to the side, a quick dart to the left, distracted. Furrowing my brow, I follow her line of sight and clash right into the Dixon's campsite, the two brothers talking outside their tent, Merle seeming half-high, even from this distance.

Seeing the apprehension in Sophia's eyes, I clear my throat and draw her attention. "Daryl isn't going to hurt you sweetie."

Her eyes go wide, guilty. I smile softly at her again and kneel down to her level, looking into her bright eyes and freckled face. I know what she had been thinking, could see it as she traced Daryl's movements like he was an animal going to attack. She's scared of him and…well I can't blame her. It's not like Daryl is Mr. Sunny-Sunshine over there. But I also know he isn't going to hurt her, isn't like her father, and I want her to know that. For some reason, I _need _her to know that.

"But," Sophia whispers, scared even now that he might overhear. "He looks…angry." I flicker my eyes over to him again and, sure enough, he does; gesturing widely to Merle as he wrestles with the laces of his boots. I shake my head. Daryl doesn't make anything easy for me that's for sure.

"Daryl's always like that. He's kind of like a grumpy bear," I say, scrunching up my face is a horrible rendition of one of his scowls. "He just likes to growl a lot." I bare my teeth and try to imitate a growl.

Sophia doesn't seem amused by antics; her eyes are still frightened and she begins to wring her hands. "I…I don't like him," she admits abruptly and I blink in surprise. That's the first negative thing I've ever heard Sophia say. "He…he's mean and yells at people. Calls Mr. T-Dog ugly words."

I'm guessing those 'ugly words' start with an N. Fucking A. I need to talk to him about being less of an asshole because, frankly, it gets more than a little old. Besides, I feel like those are more Merle's words than anything and Daryl is just parroting them out of habit.

I frown. "Sophia that's just-", I begin, trying to explain, but she cuts me off.

"And he hurt you," she whispers. I'm startled as her thin fingers reach out and brush across my temple and then my cheek, lightly tracing the scars carved into my skin. The scratches from the demon weasel have mostly faded, now they are no more than the faintest of lines on my face, only visible in the brightest of light and if you look hard enough. The ones on my shoulders are a different story, deeper, thicker, more jagged. Those will most likely heal in ropey scars but I've long ago given up the illusion of being beautiful so I'm not really bothered by them. Hell, I'm not even bothered by the scar on my temple either; the one Daryl's arrow had branded on my skin all those weeks ago. It was an accident, as was the weasel, and I've forgiven and forgotten about both of those instances.

However, it seems not everyone has. Sophia apparently blames him; the truth is clear in her eyes, in her words. I don't know what possesses me but, suddenly, I am vehemently shaking my head. "No. No sweetheart; he didn't." She doesn't believe me, she thinks I am lying, and the words are tripping off my tongue.

"It was an accident when Daryl gave me this," I tell her, pointing at the cauterized burn on my temple. "He thought I was...he thought I was a walker." The word makes her flinch but I keep going. "He was just protecting camp. It was just an accident. He was real sorry afterwards." At least I think he was anyway. "And he even brought me back here. He didn't have to do that but he did. Daryl…Daryl saved my life Sophia. Without him, I wouldn't be here."

Uncertainty flickers in her face, what I have just told her warring with the Daryl Dixon she has seen: ill tempered, pissed off at the world, with a tongue of barbed wire. The two images seem at odds with each other and in all honesty, they are. How can someone be such a bastard, racist and rude as all get out, and yet, at the same time, show such instances of kindness? Something in me, left over from days long past, prompts that maybe it wasn't kindness that made him bring me here and maybe it's not kindness that makes Daryl bring in food, day after day, without little to no thanks. Perhaps he is only looking out for himself. Well…that might be true, the Dixons are certainly looking out for themselves but…it doesn't seem to quite fit. That train of thought does not explain the pity in his eyes that first day; does not explain why he repeatedly allows me to be around him when, clearly, I don't do very much help wise; and it certainly does not explain why he had stuttered forward to help Sophia, a little girl that was nothing to him and, if he really was the cold hearted son of a bitch everyone pegged him as, was well beneath his radar of concern. Daryl Dixon is a fucking paradox but…I would be lying if I said he doesn't intrigue me.

But, only I know that Daryl's this big ole mystery, complex and intricate, with layers and something more hiding underneath his prickly exterior. Everyone else just sees a loud mouthed, racist, volatile red neck. It surprises me that no one else has seen past that front but perhaps I'm the only one that's bothered to look. Mr. St James' words suddenly flood back to me and something twists in my gut.

"_Your heart. Your heart's like Clara's. My sweet, sweet, Clara's. It sees the good in people. And the bad."_

I mentally shake the words away. Mr. St James is a senile gentleman. His words are nothing more than the ramblings of an aged and unhinged individual. I'm nothing special.

Sighing, I tug at my hair in frustration, fingers curling in the damp strands, returning my attention back to the problem at hand. How do I make them see? See that Daryl isn't a horrible person or, worse yet, his fucking brother. How do I make _Sophia _see?

An idea comes to me, half finished and unrefined, the spawn of worries that have been cycling in the back of my mind for over an hour now, but it's the best thing I've got right now so I go with it.

"Sophia. Did you like breakfast this morning?"

The young girl blinks at me, confused with my question, but she's polite and well mannered, sickeningly trained to be that way, and answers all the same. "Y…yes," she stutters and I nod my head solemnly.

"And do you know where that food came from?" I ask.

She's hesitant to answer, doesn't want to, so I speak up again, changing tactics as the thought comes to me. "Can I tell you a secret?" I don't wait for a response and instead, touch my cheek, right over one of the faint lines, drawing her eyes. "I actually didn't get attacked by an animal just walking through the woods. I was helping Daryl hunt for some food to bring back to camp."

Sophia gapes at me, blatantly surprised. "You…you went hunting? With…with…"

"With Daryl," I finish and nod. "Yup."

"_Why?"_

I contemplate her question for a second; thinking about just what my answer is going to be. "Well…to be honest…because I wanted to," I tell her and her jaw literally drops open. I chuckle and nudge her jaw close. "No really. I wanted to. He had saved my life by bringing me back here and I wanted to repay him. I thought helping him hunt was a good trade off. But, little did I know, it's really hard work. You have to track the animals or set up traps for them. And when you catch them, then you have to clean them and get them ready to eat."

A vaguely disgusted noise rattles in Sophia's throat and I wrinkle my nose in sympathy. "I know. It's rather gross. I don't really like doing it to tell you the truth," I say.

She tilts her head at me and I see honest to God curiosity in her eyes. "Then…why do it?"

And here we are; where I wanted us to arrive: _why I did it. _Taking a deep breath, I pull my hair away from my face and stare straight into Sophia's eyes, willing her to understand. "Because, it needs to be done. We all have to eat right? Well, we can't if no one brings any food in. But, I don't think that it's really fair to make Daryl do it all by himself. It really is hard work Sophia. The two of us get tired doing it together so him hunting by himself must be exhausting. But…he did it anyway. He still does it and it's really because of Daryl that we haven't gone hungry yet. Now, does that sound like something a horrible person would do?"

Sophia bites her lip and a second passes. Then another. And another. Finally, after almost a full minute, she shakes her head slowly. "N…no," she admits and I smile.

"No. It doesn't. I know that Daryl acts like an ass…um like a mean person," I correct myself, remembering Lori's request that I watch my language. "But he isn't all bad. In fact," I whisper, looking from side to side dramatically. "Can I tell you another secret?" Sophia nods rapidly and I lean in conspiratorially. "Daryl's actually nice sometimes. I've even heard him _laugh."_

Light colored eyes nearly bug out of their sockets as Sophia goggles at me. "It's true," I say, crossing my heart in a serious fashion. "Cross my heart. He just acts all mean because…well I think he just doesn't know better. But he can be cool to be around." I think back two days ago, the smirk on his face as he jokingly jabbed at me with his fake arrow, laughing as I flailed to get away. I had gotten dirt in my bra and socks, leaves twisted into my hair that were a _bitch _to get out but…it was sort of worth it, seeing Daryl's eyes glint with amusement and to see his mouth do something other than scowl or curse. It made him look younger, softer, more…attractive.

…

_**Whoa. What? **_

I nearly bite off my tongue as the last thought reverberates through my skull. What the fuck was _that? _Daryl…oh no. I must be delusional, stress fucking with my head. Daryl is just a friend; fuck, he's _barely _even that. Half the time, he's an asshole, though I know he's not one fully, as I've been telling Sophia. Still, there are a million and ten other reasons why I shouldn't think, why I _don't think, _of Daryl fucking Dixon attractive. He's like…ten years older than me for one; his brother wants to _kill _me for another, which I haven't forgotten about thank you very much. And, more importantly, it's the fucking end of the goddamn world. We're barely surviving here; Glenn just asserted that. This…nope. This didn't happen. I'm just caught up in trying to defend him to Sophia; as a _friend. _Nothing more at all.

"_Besides," _I can't help thinking, an afterthought in the back of my mind, traitorous. "_Not that I want him to but…Daryl would never look at me like that and, even if he did, I don't deserve it." _The image of golden hair and wide hazel eyes flashes in my thoughts, unbidden, unleashed from a hidden place in my head, full of shadows and things I don't want to remember. "_But, then again, I don't deserve any of this."_

I shove the unexpected thought away, deep down and bind it with chains. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Swallowing past the knot in my throat, I turn my attention back to Sophia with a smile that's more forced and fragile than it had been a moment ago. She doesn't seem to notice the change in me, the tremors in my cheeks, the sharp edges of my broken smile, and she's looking at me, trusting and innocent and oh so child like.

"Really?" she asks and I have to struggle to remember it is Daryl she is talking about.

Shakily, I reach out and tap her on the nose, trying to focus all my attention on her, grounding my thoughts in the freckles stretched across her cheeks. "Really," I answer her. "So…do you think you could give Daryl another chance? Maybe say thank you the next time you see him at dinner or lunch?" The hunter wouldn't want it, would not know what to do with it, but maybe seeing someone else, someone so young and sweet like Sophia recognize him…maybe he could learn.

Sophia chews on her lips and wraps her arms around herself, cupping her elbows in an uncomfortable gesture as she shoots another look at the Dixon camp. This time, I don't follow her gaze. "Yes," she says quietly and then louder again, "Yes. I'll…I'll try."

A dull sense of accomplishment wells inside of me but I ignore it and instead gently reach out and wrap my arms around Sophia, feeling her hollow bird bones as I squeeze her softly. After only a moment's hesitation, she clasps me back tightly and I am vaguely, suddenly, awed by how much this little girl must care for me, to look out for me against something she saw as a threat. I squeeze her firmly again, clenching my eyes shut against the memories of all those who used to do that for me, against the images of black hair and chocolate eyes, long red hair and the sound of a pealing giggle.

In that moment, something in me snaps and I am filled with an ironclad resolve to protect this little girl in my arms against all costs, against all things. I don't know what I can do about her bastard of her father; I don't know what I can do _for _her softhearted mother, who has been held down so long she doesn't remember what it's like to be free. I don't know what to do to make all the bad things go away at the moment, can't fix the world and make the monsters go away.

But I will be fucking _damned _if I let her go hungry. I can't fix all the mistakes I've made, all the people I have failed; can't erase my spot in Hell. But I can, and I _will, _do something right by Sophia; something more than just reading to her and passing the time. I will make sure she will never starve, never know that horrible ache again and, soon, I will think of something to do about her mother and Ed.

As for right now, I know what I have to do.

Giving Sophia one last hug, I draw back and give her my best smile, feeling something hot and unstoppable run through my veins. "Thank you Sophia. Now, you think we can keep this little conversation a secret," I ask, winking at her. "I don't want Lori or Shane to get mad at me or Daryl about the hunting thing." She nods quickly, grinning softly, an expression that lights up her whole face, and my determination only strengths.

"Great. Now, why don't we go find your mom?" I say, standing. "I have someone that I need to talk to."

* * *

><p>"Can we talk?"<p>

Daryl freezes but doesn't look up even though I know he's heard me. I'm standing outside of his tent, arms crossed and foot tapping out a rhythm of impatience. It's later in the day than I would have liked but this is the first chance that I've gotten to talk to him all day. After breakfast, I had to go out with Amy and collect firewood, which took almost an hour. Then, Shane had dragged me down to the quarry with Carl and Sophia, others coming along to relieve some stress in the blue waters. Not really interested in swimming, at least not today, I had tried to talk to the older man, covertly bring up Glenn's trip tomorrow, but he always cut me off before I could, like he knew what I was trying to say and didn't want to talk about it. Overall, it had been rather frustrating. From there, I had been caught up in the whirlwind of other chores: foraging for mushrooms and other things around camp, apparently I had been the only one to know that wood sorrel, a small plant with white flowers, is edible, nutrient rich, and alleviates thirst; helping Dale with something on the RV; watching Carl while Lori went "to the bathroom"; and a million other little things that took up way much more time than they should have. Not to mention, I had tried to talk to Mr. St James again. After rambling in circles for what seemed like an hour, I had finally gotten his consent for Glenn to use his truck tomorrow. Which then led to Glenn thanking me for another thirty minutes and running some of his plans by me. I would say that I was irritated by that point but I could see how nervous he was so I pushed my annoyance away and listened and contributed and did everything a good friend was supposed to do.

And now, it's almost four o'clock and I'm standing in front of Daryl, ants itching underneath my skin. Finally, an eternity already come and past, Daryl looks up from where he is sharpening his hunting knife, expression closed off and unreadable. A voice at the back of my mind tells me something isn't right, that Daryl hasn't glared at me like this in at least a week, but I ignore it, anxiety like cocaine in my veins.

Pursing my lips, I think of what to say, now that I'm here I feel struck dumb. I shift my weight from foot to foot and my eyes slide off his face, clicking to over his shoulder, staring into the distance as I consider my words and try to articulate my feelings into coherent sentences.

"Merle ain't here."

I blink and snap my gaze back to Daryl, brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

The hunter throws down the spare piece of metal he has been using as a whetstone and sheathes his knife with a definitive thrust. "I said Merle ain't here," he repeats. "If that's who yer looking for."

I shake my head. "Uh no. I wasn't looking for him. Just um thinking. Sorry," I say. Though, in hindsight, I kick myself for not keeping an eye out for the older Dixon brother. The fuck was I thinking? The man literally said he would kill me if he saw me talking to his brother again! And, even though I decided that he could go fuck himself, I sure as hell hadn't meant to just stroll right up to the younger Dixon in the middle of camp like this, when Merle could potentially be two feet away in their tent. My mind is falling apart; I blame the stress.

"So what do ya want?" Daryl asks and there's a certain edge to his words, a keenness that makes me frown. What's wrong with him?

Biting my lip, I kick at the ground, jamming my thumbs into the pockets of my shorts. Suddenly, I feel awkward, uncomfortable. I wrap my arms around me, cupping my elbows like Sophia had, feeling oddly exposed, my arms and shoulders naked, my legs too bare. I know they aren't, had checked myself this morning, but I suddenly think that all my scars are showing, screaming loud against the pale expanse of my skin, a jagged and ugly roadmap. I have the wild desire to run to my tent and throw on another shirt. But I don't. Instead, I suck it up and do my best to meet Daryl's eyes, ignoring my insane thoughts and saying what I have been waiting to say all damn day.

"We need to go hunt again."

Daryl blinks up at me, squinting in the afternoon sun. "What?" he asks. Some of the edge has been whittled off his words but I think that's just the surprise more than anything. I usually don't do this; he's the one that calls the shots, when and where we hunt, how frequent we check the traps. He's the hunter after all, the tracker. I'm just the lackey and the helper.

"I said we need to go out again. Like tonight. Preferably right now before Shane or Lori can lasso me into doing some other shit," I tell him. Which is pretty probable. In fact, I feel like they are already calling my name.

When Daryl has taken in my words, he frowns…no _scowls _up at me, angry and irritated. "Since when are _you _callin the shots kid? Last I remember, ya can't fuckin walk a straight line without gettin lost in the woods," he growls and I narrow my eyes at him, my own irritation boiling up. I take a deep breath to try and cool it.

"Look. I'm not trying to be demanding or tell you what to do all right?"

Daryl snorts. "Sure fuckin sounds like it."

I grit my teeth and bite back a sarcastic retort. "Well I'm _not. _It's just that…"

In that instant, I decide to tell him the whole truth, leave nothing out. I had not intended to lie to him but I suddenly just needed to _tell _someone, tell it all, and I think, out of every single person in camp, Daryl would be the one to understand, the one not to freak out but rather try and fix the problem.

Inhaling sharply, I take a small step forward and suddenly drop to the ground, falling to sit on my ass with my knees up to my chin, two feet away from Daryl. Our positions remind me of that clearing two days ago, when we laughed and joked around, and the memory makes me relax a bit because this is _Daryl _and, whether he wants to admit it or not, he's my friend. At least in my mind and right now, that's good enough for me.

"We're running out of food Daryl," I whisper to him, gazing at his shoes instead of into his eyes. I can almost hear his confusion.

"Out of…we just brought a haul back two days ago," he says sharply and I imagine the scowl on his lips.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I nod. "I know. I was there remember? But I was talking to Glenn this morning…it's almost all gone." My nails dig into the skin on my bare upper arms, the pain focusing my attention. "And it's not just the meat. Like…_everything _isalmost gone. Glenn says we have about three days before it's all used up. After that…"

I can't finish the sentence but Daryl understands. His silence says he understands. And even though we are still on the verge of starving…it's like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Not completely…but its easier now. Daryl will figure something out. People might think he's just some dumb redneck but I know, just as I know that he's not the bastard everyone thinks him to be, that he's actually one of the smartest people in our group. All those traps, the way he can track an animal for miles and shoot it right between the eyes from a hundred yards away…Daryl's fucking smart and capable and he will think of something; I have faith.

The two of us sit in silence for I don't know how long and eventually, I chance a glance up at him, peeking out from under my lashes. He's staring down at the ground, eyes glued to the dirt between his feet. There's a far away look to them, a fog that rivals even Mr. St James', and I realize he's processing my information, already thinking about what to do next. A sense of sweet relief begins to bloom in my chest.

However, then I notice there is something…_off _about his expression. He's chewing on his nails again or, rather, the skin because the nails are already all gone. Right now, it's his thumb that's wedged between his teeth, pulling at torn skin and I blink as the wound starts to bleed and he doesn't even notice, continuing to pull and tear and hurt himself. I've realized that Daryl does this when he's uncomfortable or on edge. With the intensity that he's going at it now…he must be both. Shit. Our situation must be way worse than I thought.

Suddenly, I lean forward without thinking and wrap my fingers around Daryl's wrist. Blue eyes snap up to clash with mine and I offer a small smile as I gently pry his hand away from his mouth, trying not to look at the droplets of blood caught in the dry skin of his lips. "You're bleeding," I whisper and he blinks at me as if he's realizing it for the first time. He rips his arm from my grasp, like I burned him, and roughly wipes his hand against his jeans. I let my own fall back into my lap.

"So what are we going to do?" I ask when he still doesn't say anything. Daryl narrows his eyes at me for a moment, a scrutinizing expression, but then he shakes his head, turning around to grab the crossbow that's leaning against the back of his chair.

"_We _ain't gonna do anything," he says gruffly. I open my mouth automatically, confused and objecting, but he cuts me off, standing in a fluid movement and towering over me. "_I'm _goin huntin."

Without another word, he tries to step around me, over me, but I'm scrambling up off the ground before he can and, abruptly, we're standing nearly chest-to-chest, half a foot of air between us. "What do you mean _you're _going hunting? I'm coming with you," I say adamantly. I almost _always _go with him, unless Merle does, and the older Dixon is nowhere in sight, more than likely off getting high somewhere. There's no reason I shouldn't go.

Daryl glares down at me, blue eyes blazing and nostrils flared. I never noticed how tall he was but, standing this close, I realize he's a good half a head higher than me. "_No, _you ain't," he stresses.

"And why _not?" _I'm not about to let him go without a good, goddamn reasonable explanation.

He growls, low and deep in his chest, and his lips thin into a dangerous white line. "Cuz goddamn it. I ain't about to fuckin starve and there ain't anything bigger than squirrel left round here. If ya don't want to _die, _I have to go farther out, away from the city. Spend a good day or two trackin a buck or doe. And I can't do that if yer tramplin along after me, scarin everythin off!"

I'm struck dumb at the end of his tirade, mouth hanging open, gaping like a suffocating fish. Daryl is heaving at this point, hissing air in and out of his lungs and he sneers at me, taking a step back and spitting to the side. I distantly remark that spitting was another one of his nervous ticks.

"Tch. Why the hell am I standin here wastin time explainin this shit to you?" he says. He shakes his head in disgust, whether at me or at him I'm not sure, and quickly steps around me, walking away. I blink at the space he used to occupy, my mind racing to catch up and, when it does, I spin on heel and take off after him, feet pounding against the dirt.

"Wait," I call out, not even minding my volume. Daryl had managed to get about thirty yards away before I catch up to him, circling the front of camp, away from the quarry. He doesn't turn around when he hears me, just about to duck under a string of cans when I reach out and grab his arm, throwing all my power into my arm to whirl him around. He stumbles due to my momentum and curses, trying to right himself.

"Son of a bitch! The hell ya think-"

"Let me come with you," I interrupt, panting. He glowers at me in genuine anger.

"Did ya not just fuckin hear-"

I wave my hand dismissively, cutting him off again. "I heard. And I still think I should go with you." He makes an impatient noise but I don't let him get a word in edgewise.

"Look. I know I'm not exactly light on my feet, at least not in the woods. But I'll do my best to stay quiet. I'll step where you step; breathe when you breathe. I won't say a fucking word. Just…please," I beg, hating how pleading my voice sounded but not taking back anything I've said. "Please let me go with you."

Now it's Daryl's turn to be struck dumb. The death glare he's been directing at me for the last few minutes slowly fades away, the ugly combination of a sneer and a scowl unhitching itself from Daryl's lips bit by bit, like a glacier slowly melting under the sun. It's replaced by a puzzled look and the hunter stares at me like, despite the time we've spent together, I'm still speaking a different language.

"Why?" he demands and I think back to all the other times I've offered my help to him and how he's asked this exact same question each and every time.

And, just like all those other times, I answer him in the exact same manner: honestly.

"Because how else are you going to drag back some big ass deer all by yourself?" I ask. "Not to mention watch your back so a walker doesn't come up and bite you in the ass? You can't, not alone. I just want to help Daryl. Just like I said before. Just help you…and help everyone else here, make sure they don't go hungry."

Sophia's face flickers before my eyes and I meet Daryl's gaze, trying to show him how serious I was about this; how I wanted, _needed, _to do this.

The older man considers my words, mulls them over from what seems like an eon. His eyes flicker over my face, unreadable, and I find myself squirming under their crystal blue color. But, finally, I can tell I've won, see the defeat in his eyes just before he growls and sighs. "Fine. But ya better keep up. I ain't slowin down for ya."

A relieved and giddy feeling spreads through me, almost making my knees buckle, and I grin up at Daryl. "Since when have you ever?" I reply. He rolls his eyes.

"Shut up kid and come on. We're wastin daylight with ya shootin yer mouth."

Still grinning, I'm about to follow Daryl when a thought draws me up short. "Hold up a minute," I say and Daryl groans, turning to narrow his eyes at me.

"The fuck's wrong now?" he gripes.

I ignore his hostility and rub at my chin, thinking. "We need supplies. Water, some granola bars or something. You know, in case. We can't just walk off into the woods with nothing. You never know what could happen. Just sit tight for a second and I'll run and grab something quick. It'll take no more than three minutes and then we can leave."

Daryl grumbles and I smirk, turning to leave, but he suddenly catches my wrist, tight, making me cast him a look over my shoulder in inquiry. "Then we're leavin alright? No more fuckin around," he grouses but there is no true heat in his words. I roll my eyes at him in return.

"Yes sir," I say, mock saluting him.

Not waiting for his response, I begin to move away, mind already winding through camp and into my tent, delving into my bad and the few supplies I have stashed there. But, before I can even finish the motion, a sight ten feet away brings me to a grinding halt and I feel the breath whoosh out of me, like I've been kicked in the chest.

"Leave?" Carl repeats, his blue eyes wide and uncomprehending, face drawn and pale. "W…where are you going Audrey?"

His voice sounds so small and scared and confused and I want nothing more than to wipe all those emotions out of him, leave him happy and content, but I can't even think of anything to say, my mouth hanging open, useless, as Carl continues to stare at me. Daryl is silent behind me and I know he's not going to be of any help so I try to kick-start myself into action, try to force some words of explanation off my tongue.

All that comes out is a stuttered, botched, unfinished reply. "C…carl. I…I don't…this isn't…you don't under…I'm not…_Carl." _

He starts to shake his head at me, slow at first but faster and faster, with something akin to betrayal on his face as he stumbles back, feet tangling. He opens his mouth, the inside black with a flash of white teeth.

"_Mom! Shane!"_

And before I can stop him, he's sprinting away; presumably back to camp, Daryl and my little secret tripping off his lips.

"_Fuuuuuuck," _I hiss out, staring at the spot Carl used to be standing, eyes wide, blinking, wishing with each flicker of my eyelids that the young boy had just been a complete figment of my imagination; knowing by the sudden sounds from camp that he hadn't been. "Fuck. Fuck._ Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck__fuck!__"_

My hands bury themselves in my hair, yanking at the roots in abject frustration and anger. Fuck. I'm screwed. No. No, _we're _screwed. Daryl and I. The both of us. Carl's going to tell Shane about what he heard, what he saw, Daryl and I on the edges of camp, talking about leaving, and the cop is going to come barreling down here, more than likely with everyone else in tow, and shove his gun and Daryl's face and completely misunderstand what's going on here. He'll probably think that Daryl's trying to kidnap me or something and all hell will break lose and then _Merle _will probably show up, just to give some flavor to things and because Murphy's Law just loves to bend me over (2), and end up stabbing me in the skull for not listening to him. And, somewhere in all of this, before Merle kills me, I'll more than likely blurt out something about our food crisis, in an effort to explain things to Shane, and then everyone will know we are about to starve and they will begin to freak out and…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I pivot around and try to say something to Daryl but, just as I get his blue eyes into focus, his snarling lips and rigid posture, my name rings out through the air.

"_Audrey!"_

Have I said _fuck _yet_?_

It's a breath and a blink later and suddenly, Shane comes tumbling through the underbrush, shotgun in hand, Lori wide-eyed behind him and Jesus Christ; I might as well have predicted the future. Within seconds, Shane is standing in front of me, Lori, Carl, Amy, Andrea, Glenn, Carol, Sophia and Morales making a semi-circle of onlookers behind him. The set up briefly reminds me of mine and Shane's spar a life time ago and I can't help but think this confrontation will end up coming to blows too.

Shane has his mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes hard and glaring at Daryl over my shoulder. His gaze drops down suddenly and there's a tight pressure around my wrist, a split second iron manacle, before it's abruptly released. It takes a moment for me to realize that Daryl had still been holding my wrist, fingers overlapping, completely encircling the bone. The sight makes Shane's mouth grow thinner and, the gun that had been pointed at the ground up until this point, twitches just the slightest bit upward.

"Dixon," he grits out and, despite that fact that his voice is as flat as can be, it would take an idiot not to notice the hostility lurking beneath the words, an undercurrent of lava under a frozen lake. "What's goin on here?"

I feel Daryl go tense behind me and I can almost _taste _his retort, some kind of fuck off that will _really _not help our situation, so I interrupt before the hunter can make things any worse than I already have.

"S…Shane," I stammer, frantically scouring my brain for some kind of excuse. Nothing is forth coming and the silence echoes out condemningly. "I…I know this looks…but nothings wrong ok? Carl just overreacted and-"

"I did not," the boy cries out and, I love him, I really do, but I mentally beg him to kindly _shut the fuck up. _I do my best to shoot him that message via my eyes but Shane starts talking again and I have to return my attention back to him.

"Carl said Dixon grabbed you and that the two of you were leaving," he says calmly and I wince at how much Carl misinterpreted everything. The truth was bad enough. This lie was catastrophic. I hear a few people gasp at Shane's words, Carol's face goes wan white, Lori looks vaguely disgusted, Amy looks pissed to hell, and I start waving my hands hysterically, unconsciously moving to stand in front of Daryl who, as of it, still hasn't said a word.

"No! No that didn't…well it did happen," I amend, remembering how Shane had seen Daryl's hand on my wrist and knowing that denying Carl's words completely would just look like a shitty attempt at a cover up. "But…it's not like it sounds. Daryl and I were just joking around."

Oh shit. Now _that _sounded like a shitty attempt at a cover up. Son of a bitch. Groaning, I take a deep breath and close my eyes, shutting out everyone's faces and their expressions, trying to gather my thoughts and my wits.

"Alright," I breathe when I've calmed down enough. I open my eyes and meet Shane's gaze, drawing it from Daryl. "Alright. Carl did hear Daryl say that but he didn't mean leaving as in getting the hell outta Dodge. And he wasn't dragging me anywhere by the wrist either." I feel the need to exemplify that because Shane keeps looking at my wrist like, if he stares hard enough, he will see bruises forming and that will give him cause enough to start some shit. "We were just going to go hunting."

No one seems convinced, glowering past me at Daryl like he's somehow making me say this, a puppet dancing on a string, and I can't help the scowl that forms on my face. "It's true! We're running low on food so I, _I, _asked Daryl if we could try and find something so we don't starve." I hadn't meant to say that, honestly, but it just came out and holy crap.

I really did predict the future.

"Ask Shane. Ask Glenn," I continue, seeing the general looks of disbelief and mistrust. "They'll back me up on that."

As one, the rest of the group turns to Shane and Glenn. The younger male holds up his hands in a _don't look at me _gesture, and so Shane becomes the center of attention. A muscle in his jaw is ticking, and now it's not just Daryl he's glaring at; anger is directed at me as well, deep and hot in his dark eyes.

"Shane?" Lori speaks up, gazing at the back of his head in question. She's wrapped her hands around Carl and draws him close; as if to protect him, shield him. Perhaps to ground herself as well. She looks scared, eyes blue and wide, just like her son. I feel like a complete bastard now for dropping this right in her lap.

The former cop scowls at me, at Daryl, at the pair of us, and sighs, shoulders dropping as he turns to address the rest of the group. "We're running a little low," he admits and everyone starts talking at once, chaotic and confused.

"What do you mean_ low?" _Andrea demands loudly.

"You can't be serious!" her sister echoes.

"What are we going to do?" Carol nearly whimpers and the rest just dissolves into a discordant din of voices, like multiple waves crashing against the shore at once, a general roar.

"Hey!"

The frantic conversations die down at Shane's commanding tone, leaving wide eyes and anxious faces. The older man tosses his shot gun across his shoulders and I can only imagine his expression: the steel line of his jaw, the powerful, authoritative look he is giving them, every inch the cop he used to be. "Everyone just needs to calm down," he says. "We're going to be _fine_. I already have a plan to fix this so no one needs to worry. Tomorrow, Glenn is taking a small group of people to do some recon in the city." I blink at his words, and shoot a look towards the young Asian but he looks just as surprised as I am so Shane must have just pulled this 'plan' out of his ass. But he's smooth with it, rides the false, lying wave of security all the way back to shore as he says, "It's taken care of."

Running an exasperated hand through his hair, Shane pivots to fix his glower on Daryl and I again, almost snarling at us as the afternoon light glints of the _22 _hanging around his neck. "Which is _why _I didn't want to say anything," he grinds out and the accusation is as clear in his tone as if he had said the words, _Audrey you fucked this up. _

For a moment, guilt overwhelms me and I duck my head, cowed. An apology is already dancing behind my teeth, rattling in my throat, but before I can say it, release it into the air, a sudden thought strangles it in my lungs.

Shane's condemning and disappointed face looms in my minds eye, along with Lori's and Amy's and Glenn's, the accusation bright in their eyes but really…what have I done _wrong?_ Ok yeah, I might have let the cat out of the bag but the rest of camp was going to find out sooner or later, one way or another. Them finding out now is not the end of the world, no pun intended. But I wouldn't have needed to even say anything in about the food situation in the first place if _Shane_ hadn't put me in that position, against a rock and a hard place. No one would have believed I was going to go hunting with Daryl if they didn't know about current circumstances and, if they didn't believe, well…shit was going to hit the fan and I wouldn't be surprised if Daryl ended up in handcuffs or…well…the apocalyptic equivalent anyway.

A deep irritation bordering on indignation simmers in me at that fact: the fact that everyone just sees the hunter as some rabid dog, good enough to bring some food in but not much else. That they think he would just drag me away to do what? Rape me? Kill me? _Hello. _That's the other Dixon brother. Daryl would never do anything like that. Why can't they see that? If he was going to do these horribly atrocious things…then why bring me back to camp at all? Why not just have his way with me in the middle of the woods, with no one around to hear me scream, and just kill me there? No one would even know. But Daryl didn't do that. He brought me back, safe and sound save the small gash on my face that was merely an accident. How did no one see this, notice it, and contemplate what that implied?

The answer is simple: because they didn't want to see it. To them, Daryl is just some inbred, white trash, redneck and that's as far as they need to look. It pisses me of. Daryl _saved my life; _without him chasing after me, which he did not have to do by any stretch of the imagination, I would have waltzed right into Atlanta and right into the arms of thousands of walkers. I'm indebted to him. I wonder if that's why I feel so defensive of the hunter or if it's because something Sensei said to me, the day he gave me the katana that is strapped to my back at this very moment, is still ringing and echoing in my head, as if he had just said them mere seconds ago instead of almost a decade past. Something about good and bad and how things are not always as they appear.

And suddenly, I'm no longer the slightest bit contrite. All I've done is try to help these people and, just like with Daryl, they've thrown it back in my face. Why are they condemning me for trying to keep them fed? Because I'm choosing to be _near _Daryl? Last time I checked, none of these people are my parents and I'm seventeen years old. I am not a fucking child. In fact, I don't think I ever had the chance to be so anything they say along that line has no fucking bearing at all.

Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and meet Shane's still accusatory glower. Something in my face must trip him up because he blinks, the anger slipping a bit, faltering, as surprise takes its place. I do my best not to sneer, do my best to stay as diplomatic as possible because that is what Sensei and Mom taught me. To reign in my wild anger and be _human _about things like this. In all honesty, I want nothing more than to throw a goddamn fit and punch something.

"Well I'm _sorry _Shane," I drawl out, answering his previous barb at me. "But it's the truth isn't it? Daryl and I needed some reason to go out or it would just seem like we were lying." My fingers flex against my thighs and I can't stop the last jab. "Not that it's really any of your business if were lying or not but that's besides the point."

Shane gapes at me, at the thinly veiled hostility in my words, and I can see everyone else do the same behind him. I grit my teeth and stand unapologetic.

"We...we were just worried about you. We…we still are," Lori suddenly speaks up and a few others bob their head in agreement. All of them are looking at me, confused hurt in their expressions and something in me wants to apologize but I shut it up and shut it down. I have nothing to apologize for. _I _have done nothing wrong.

But I'm not completely without understanding. To some degree, I can see where they are coming from. However, ignorance only goes so far. There has to be some give and take here and all they've been doing is taking. Either way, I try to keep as much anger out of my voice as possible, giving Lori the benefit of the doubt even if she won't return the favor to Daryl.

"You don't have to worry," I reply. "Daryl and I have actually gone hunting together in the past." Surprise overtakes the older woman's features and the look is contagious because it spreads like a virus, jumping from one person's visage to the next.

"Yeah," Shane abruptly grunts and I zero back in on him. "And look where that got you." He gestures vaguely at my face and I feel eight pairs of eyes automatically trace the faint scars on my cheeks, my temple, their gazes like fire against my skin.

I try not to fidget in discomfort and school my expression into stoicism. "Accidents. Honest to god accidents and nothing more. Hunting is a dangerous job Shane. Not that any of you would know."

I throw the last comment like a dagger and watch with a dim flare of satisfaction as everyone flinches. It's getting more and more difficult to be diplomatic about this when no one else is even trying and I can feel my calm resolve start to break, shifting along the fault lines. "And speaking of hunting, Daryl and I need to head out before it gets completely dark. Don't wait up. We'll be a day or two. " Without waiting for their comments, or their permission, I spin around and am about to brush past Daryl, not even looking at him, when Shane stops me dead in my tracks.

"No."

Freezing, I stare into the forest in disbelief for a moment before glancing back over my shoulder. "_Excuse_ me?" I ask. My voice is low and quiet, dangerous, the calm before the storm that I feel raging inside of me. The fault lines spread, silk fine webs spidering out in all directions. Shane doesn't appear deterred; if anything, he's more resolved. He squares his jaw and widens his stance, almost as if he's bracing himself.

"I said _no," _he repeats and I hear the authority of a police officer in his words, the confidence of a man who is used to being listened to. "You aren't going out to the middle of nowhere with nothing but some backwoods hillbilly as your backup."

I don't know what Daryl's reaction to being called a "backwoods hillbilly" is but I damn sure know what mine is. Making a strangled noise in the back of my throat, I'm advancing towards Shane before I can even think, before I can even blink, watching as everyone takes an involuntary step back. They are all looking as me with shocked and stunned expressions, thrown for a loop by this _new _Audrey they see before them, wondering where the docile one went, the one that smiles and reads to children and does anything anyone asks. Well, here's a fucking news flash. I _am _that Audrey. I can be kind and, with my background and the memories I still retain, the goddamn memories literally _carved into my skin,_ I do everything in my power to try and help people, be moral and nice and treat people the way I _wanted _to be treated when I was a little kid growing up. The golden rule goes pretty far with me.

But piss me off and see what happens. I only have so much compassion and so much patience. Exhaust both of those…and just fucking wait and see what I will do.

When I'm a foot away from Shane, who to his credit hasn't flinched, I stop. And wait. And wait. And, finally, when everyone can't hold his or her breath any longer, I speak.

"Shane…my last name is not fucking Walsh. I am _not _your daughter. _You _are not my father. So do not presume to tell me what to do like you know fucking better. I understand that you've somehow become the leader of our ragtag group and are trying to make some executive decisions but I am an adult and I can make my own decisions. And, right now, I've decided to go out and hunt with Daryl so no one _starves. _Understand?"

I speak the words as slowly and clearly as possible, so he will get what I'm saying, not only hear but _listen _as well. But Shane must be willfully deaf because he just adamantly shakes his head at me and draws himself to full height. For a split second, I have the insane thought that he's going to like beat his chest and assert his male dominance by hollering like a gorilla and I have to curb the instinct to laugh.

"You're only seventeen; in the state of Georgia ya gotta be eighteen to be considered an adult," Shane says, words flat and sharp, ripped from the pages of some law manual and crafted into a sword to stab at me. "You don't have a say and, seeing as I'm a public official, I _say _that you aren't going. End of discussion."

I'm staring open mouthed at Shane, letting his words tumble in my head, rocks in a dryer, and suddenly, I'm doing this horrible combination of a scoff and a laugh. The resulting sound is nasty, mean, and it's exactly how I'm feeling. "Oh my god," I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "What the fuck is this? I'm not _asking _you to go out for the night to some goddamn party. And, let me reiterate the point of since when have I needed your permission Shane?"

Snorting, I throw out a hand and gesture dramatically around us. "If you haven't noticed, the world has freaking _ended. _Sorry to burst your bubble but you aren't a "public official" because there is no _public _anymore. It's just us: less than two-dozen people surviving day to day here. You can't threaten to write me a ticket and, unless you're going to handcuff me to the RV of shoot me in the leg, you _can't _keep me here."

I don't know when this became less about the food and starving and more about Daryl and me but I can't seem to keep my mouth shut, indignation shoving barbed word after serrated phrase off my tongue. But now, I'm done. Done with arguing and defending and trying to make Shane and everyone else see my side and…hell what was my point again? You know what? Fuck it. I'm just done.

Sneering in disgust, I swivel around and open my mouth to tell Daryl let's go but, in an extreme moment of déjà vu, Shane latches unto my wrist and I am rendered immobile. But unlike when Daryl did it, Shane's grip is tight and unforgiving, nails digging into my skin, and when I'm whirl to demand he let me go, I'm suddenly thrown back three weeks into the past, Daryl at my side, blood on my face, and a wild, unnamable, unexplainable urge to step _away _from Shane coursing through my veins.

"Audrey," he says and finally, there's a hitch to his voice, anger seeping through the cracks. "You are _not _going. I let you go and-"

"You aren't _letting _me do anything," I snap and try to yank my wrist from him. "I'm going and why the hell are you being stubborn about this? I'm trying to _help _Walsh!" I've never called Shane by his last name before and my mouth feels sour around the word. "I'm trying to get food and here you are stopping me. Do you want us to starve?"

The former, and yes I mean _former _because he isn't one anymore, can't be, cop scowls down at me like _I'm _the one being difficult. "Don't be stupid; of course I don't," he growls. I open my mouth to argue but he cuts me off. "But if you go into those woods, you aren't going to come back. You're just a kid and all those wa-"

"I'm not a _kid," _I snarl. "And that's bullshit. You just don't want me to go cuz-"

"_Jesus Fucking Christ!"_

The explosive words interrupt me mid-sentence and I whip my head around to see Daryl spitting harshly to the side, aggressive and enraged as he strides forward. He's been quiet all this time, hasn't said a word since Carl ran off, sounding the alarm like Paul fucking Revere, but now I see that he's reached his boiling point. Shane grows tense in front of me, his grip on my wrist tightening to the point of pain, but Daryl only glares at him, a stare that could melt gold, as he approaches.

I pry my tongue off the bottom of my mouth. "Daryl?" I ask, warn, wondering what he is doing but he sneers at me as he passes, eyes malicious and irate, a different man than I had been talking to mere minutes before.

"All of ya'll can argue all ya damn want. Yer wastin my fuckin time." He storms past Shane and I without another word but I call out to him, trying to tug free of Shane but the bastard won't let go and Daryl doesn't stop.

"Damn it Daryl," I curse at his back, watching as the others part to let him past, Lori and Carol drawing their respective children behind them as he draws closer. "Wait a minute! I'm coming with you!"

Finally, the hunter pauses and I have half a moment's time to feel relieved before he throws me a look of contempt over his shoulder, the blue of his eyes like ice daggers, and keeps on walking, stalking away with the words, "Ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble," floating back to smack me in the face.

Then he's gone, weaving through the sparse underbrush back towards camp, not even sparing a glance back at me. The silence that follows the last echo of his footsteps is deafening and all I can hear in the thud of my heart and the harsh panting of my breath. No one says anything and it's like we've frozen in time. Or at least I have. Trapped in some glacier, staring out at the world but unable to move. But then, someone shifts in the grass, steps on a twig, and the sound is like a gunshot that starts a race, kick starting the world again.

Sound comes back to me, the murmurs of Lori and Andrea, the whispers of Amy and Glenn and I can _feel _all their eyes on me and I'm suddenly so fucking _pissed _I could cry.

Not even saying a world, I coil the muscles in my arm and wrench my wrist from Shane. There's a split second of burning pain and then my momentum has me stumbling several feet back, my arm colliding so hard with my gut I'm sure I've bruised myself. Shane snaps his head towards me, mouth half open to say something, but then his face goes white and his eyes go wide as they look down and a silent gasp, an exhale of air, rattles out of his mouth. I cast half a glance down but all I can see is _red _and I don't know if it's blood from my gashed wrist, Shane's nails having carved deep furrows in my skin, or the crimson filter that's descended over my eyes but the sight jerks me into action all the same. Gritting my teeth, I snap my head up and Shane is saying something but I can't hear a word over the roar in my head and I'm stalking forward without meaning too, shoving the bigger man roughly out of the way before I break out into a sprint, barreling past the rest of the onlookers, the wind snatching their comments and cries.

I'm running at a full tilt before I know it, legs catching in brambles and bushes. I don't look back to see if Shane or anyone else is following me; I know they must be. But I'm faster than any of them, save perhaps Glenn, but he can't stop me either because my goal quickly jumps into sight, the blue-grey material of the Dixon tent rising fifty yards in the distance.

Fuck Shane. Fuck all of them. I'm going hunting with Daryl and there was nothing they could do about it. I know, somewhere under the rage, that my fury is overreacting and I usually don't act like this. For the most part, I'm level headed, logical. But fuck, I'm only human and Daryl's words keep looping around in my head, like a broken record, and despite the fact that he's said them before, that time they had been said in jest, joking and teasing. This time around…he sounded almost like he meant them, like I wasn't the worth the trouble, and they simultaneously make me so fucking _angry, _because it sounds like I'm back to square one again with the damn Dixon bastard,and dig deeper than I want to admit, hurt more than I want to say.

Because "ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble," sounds an awful lot like "ya goddamn worthless bitch," and I thought I had heard the last of that shit the day Social Services finally took me away, five years too late but better than never.

At this point, I don't know if I want to yell at Daryl or just forget what he said and follow him along on to his hunt. There's a wild urge to just get _away _propelling me forward but, beyond that, it's indiscernible. I'm about to find out though, because I can see him now, thirty-five yards away, thirty, twenty five-

And then I realize he isn't alone, that Merle is standing next to him, and my feet falter and I don't know whether to stop or keep going but, suddenly, the choice is made for me because Daryl abruptly yells something at his older brother, face twisted in rage, and he decks Merle right across the cheek, the crack of bone against bone piercingly loud as Merle is laid out, flat on his ass.

My feet stutter to a stop now, ankles catching, knees knocking together and it's a miracle I don't end up on my face. I remain upright, if only just barely, just in time to see Daryl spit something at his brother, words or saliva I can't tell. He straightens then and looks up and I know he sees me, our eyes clash and collide, and even if I can't tell what's behind them at this distance, I know he _sees _me at the very least. But he acts like he doesn't. Pretends I'm not even there and just tears his gaze from mine and snatches up his crossbow, storming into the woods behind his campsite before I can even take another breath. The second he disappears, I'm automatically shifting forward to follow, he can't get too far, I can catch up to him.

But then I catch sight of Merle, who's struggling to sit up and he catches sight of me and I can't move because under the blood Merle has gushing from his nose, I can see the fury, directed at Daryl, directed at me, and I know he won't hesitate to shoot me in this moment, if I give him the opportunity, the opening.

I take a step back, my eyes flickering from Merle to the spot where Daryl disappeared, and I consider going around, mind running a mile a minutes. I can backtrack and circle camp and catch Daryl before he gets to far. And yet, the second I half turn to do so, I see Glenn and Amy round the RV, panting, and they see me before I can hide and, within seconds, they are only a handful of yards away. I twist my head the other way and Merle is swiping at his nose with the back of his wrist, glaring promises of death at me and I realize…I'm trapped. Between a rock and a hard place, unable to move, and Daryl's getting farther and farther away and…son of a bitch.

I'm able to spare the woods one last glance, imagining the flicker of Daryl's sleeveless shirt blending into the trees, before Glenn skids to my side and I am shackled, Glenn on one side and Amy on the other, bound and chained and subdued with nowhere to go, the words _"ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble",_ circling an endless drain in my head.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC :)<strong>

**(1) This is actually a little thing my own grandmother taught me as a child :] It basically translates into "baby jesus, take the hiccups away. With five little drinks of water, let them stop." It sounds better in Spanish lol x)**

**(2) Murphy's Law- whatever can go on **_**will. **_**It's personally, the story of my life. T.T**

**And there we are :) What did you guys think? A lot of stuff happened in this chapter. I read some of your guys' requests and I hope I incorporated enough of them to please :) And, speaking about reviews, THANK ALL OF YOU SO MUCH! :D I had a HUGE influx of reviews last chap and i want you all to know what every single one of them made me SQUEAL in happiness. I just LOVE how much you all love my story :) It really humbles me and makes me feel honored. **

**That includes all the nonnie (anonymous) reviewers as well :) I do my best to personally PM every reviewer in thanks but I can't to that with nonnie's so i'll do it here :)**

**Thank you so much: **

**~Aquice :)** And your english was just about perfect so don't worry about that :D I'm glad that you like my humble writings so far and I'm honored that I deserved a review from you.

**Zysea**** :)** You aren't a nonnie but I couldnt PM you for some reason so I'm thanking you here :) And i don't know about being one of the best stories out there, I have read some really epic ones, but I'm so happy you think so highly of me X) I hope I keep entertaining you during lunch break and you're welcome for reminding you about the Giver. :) lol

**~Sierra :)** Norman and Sean were amazingly sweet :) They were just so down to earth and not high off themselves :) Glad you like the detail and there should have been a lot of that in this chap so i hope that made you happy ^^

**~just passing by :)** I don't know if it's a good thing that i creeped you out but you're welcome? :) haha And i'm awed that you read it in one go o.o As for Daryl and Audrey's relationship, thanks :) I always wanted something natural. I hate when people just automatically jump each others bones right off the bat and then call it love -_- I wanted something different, deeper, and I'm giddy that someone else appreciates it ^^

**~Andrea :)** No you rock :) lol And i didnt really address Daryl and Audrey's bet but it will pop up soon again don't worry ;)

**That's all for now :) Next chapter starts show cannon so stay tuned for that! :D Please keep up the reviews!**

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**


	14. Serrated Eyes and Loaded Tongues

**Had a bit of writer's block with this one :/ Sorry about the wait. Some heads up, this is the retelling of the last chapter, seen through Daryl's eyes :) Hope you like it and remember to review! :D**

**Disclaimers: I don't own nuthin :(**

**Warnings: Language**

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><p><strong>Chapter 14: Serrated Eyes and Loaded Tongues<strong>

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><p><em>The house was relatively small. It was a tiny white number, all faded, chipped paint and warped siding. The door was a dented and worn down dark green. The screen stretched across it was riddled with so many holes that it let in more bugs than it kept out and, in the summer, all the AC, when it was actually working, whistled straight through it, leaving the house stuffy and sticky. The roof was a patched up mess, bald spots laid bare to the open air, entire sections sagging just a little inward, like the whole house was getting so fed up and goddamn tired, it was just caving on in, defeated. It was a piece of shit; had always <em>_**been **__a piece of shit. Daryl had always wanted to escape it but never could. His 'home.' His house of horrors. He'd __**hated **__every second he spent in the goddamn shit hole._

_So why was he here? _

_He hadn't been here before right? He was somewhere else…somewhere…different. Not here. He'd left here. Why…why he couldn't remember. It was something important though. Something…something very important. But he couldn't remember. It burned on the tip of his tongue, in the back of his mind, lingering on the fringes of his mind but whenever he reached for it, the idea slipped through his fingers like smoke, a cascade of random images that made no sense. _

_A field, a town, on fire; the flames licking to the sky. _

_A glance of blue water; ripples fanning for miles._

_A glimpse of cars and tents; a shantytown. _

_A glimmer of green eyes, sharp and bright, like gems._

_Daryl turned his head from side to side, tearing his gaze away from the crappy four walls he had spent all his life caged within, trying to figure out why he was standing in front of his house. To the left, a dead and dried up field lay, just dirt and dilapidated grain, barren and deserted, bleached gray like the color had been sucked out of it. A rusted out tractor lay tipped over on its side, just as colorless, like a dead animal. The tractor was familiar, had been laid to rest there for years but…it looked different. Aside from the missing color, pieces were absent too, a tire, an axle, and that's when Daryl noticed the vultures that pecked viciously at the tractor's innards, beaks grating on the metal. The sound was screechy and unholy and Daryl winced, slapping his hands over his ears to ward off the noise. The birds glanced up at his movement, an innumerable number of black beady eyes trained in on him, and bile abruptly roiled in Daryl's gut as he noticed the vulture's beaks had been torn away, shredded by their violent pecking and feasting. All that was left was a bloody mess, black and red gaping holes, stark in the washed out landscape, and suddenly, as one, the birds let out a horrible screech, the sound resembling a collective human scream. Daryl turned away quickly and stumbled to the right, away from the racket, towards the small shed that was situated halfway around the house, just as rundown and shitty as the rest of the land. He kept the keys to Merle's bike there; maybe he could drive away from here. The thought of his brother's name stirred something in his mind. Merle. Where was Merle? Hadn't…hadn't he been with him? With him…someplace else? Daryl tried to remember but, as he lifted his head, a sight drew him up short, like walking into a brick wall, and the noise of the vultures grew louder at his back, the sharp sounds of metal on metal ripping to pieces intermixed with the calls of the black, hulking birds. _

_A white truck lay between Daryl and the shed, a 1974 Chevy pickup, the rear window long since busted out, the sides dented and dinged, the front bumper hanging at an angle. It wasn't that he didn't know the truck; that wasn't why he had stopped. The fact was…it __**was **__familiar, too familiar, and there was no way in hell it could be here, parked in Daryl's driveway, because it had flipped over in a ditch almost ten years ago, taking its fucking driver with it. _

_A sudden creak split the air, loud like a gunshot, making Daryl realize the birds behind him had fallen silent, not a vestige or an echo lingering of their ghoulish screams. It was a complete silence, a dead silence, and, unbidden, he found himself turning towards the house; his whole body spun around like he was a goddamn puppet and some marionette was yanking on his strings. The door gaped open, the screen hanging from its hinges. A cold fear seized Daryl as he stared into the yawning black hole, unnamable and instinctual. He tried to take a step back, tried to turn away, but his whole body was frozen in place, facing his house. He struggled and thrashed, writhing in place, dying to escape but not knowing exactly why. He didn't need to know why though; something in him just said that he needed to get away, that he shouldn't, __**couldn't, **__go into that house. _

_But then he blinked and the choice was made for him: he was standing in a claustrophobic hallway with cold floorboards beneath his feet, the first sense of feeling he'd had, framed in a warped doorway, and suddenly, Daryl was six years old, four feet off the floor and small._

_Two figures struggled in the room before him. Back and forth, push and pull, a violent tide. It was dark, the space illuminated only by a lone lamp situated on a night table, shoved into the corner of the room. The dim light cast shadows of the fighting duo, twisting and writhing shapes thrown against the opposite wall, leaping and dancing in chaotic patterns. A sharp cry rang out, echoing, and one of the figures fell heavily to the floor, an arch of golden hair flashing in the weak light. Daryl whimpered, a high-pitched almost soundless noise, and took a step forward, bare feet tripping over the threshold. _

"_Mama?"_

_The silhouette that was still standing jerked its head up at Daryl's exclamation and the young boy flinched as he recognized his father, the owner of the truck outside, a bear of a man with dark hair, an even darker expression, and stormy blue eyes that bore testament to the darkness behind them. _

"_Ya got something ya wanna say boy?" George Dixon growled, his voice distorted and low, a demonic voice. _

_Daryl whimpered again and looked down at his feet, his mother prone on the floor. As he watched, her head shifted, the long gold hair glinting. _

"_Sweetheart? Are you there? Help me. Daryl, please help me," she begged. A shaking arm snaked out across the floor, reaching for him. The little boy bent down to help his mother, extending his own arm, but then she lifted her head and he screamed, stumbling back, colliding harshly with a now closed door. _

_She had no face. It was rotten off, completely unrecognizable. Her lips were gone, ripped off; broken, serrated teeth bared in a skeleton's grin. Her cheeks were in ribbons, flesh hanging in tatters, white bone shinning underneath. One of her eyes was hanging out of its socket, dangling and swinging back and forth, brushing the corner of her mouth with each movement. But she still called out to him, fingers still grasping for him, her voice eerily normal, the same warm drawl that sang him to sleep coming out of the mouth of a walker. _

"_Daryl? Sweetie, help me. Daryl?"_

_A metallic taste burned on Daryl's tongue but he couldn't bring himself to move towards the __**thing **__that resembled his mother. Not even when his father stepped forward and began to kick her, over and over again, the sound of breaking bones and flesh resounding in the room even as Daryl's mother continued to say his name, the syllables starting to blend into indiscernible gurgles and moans. _

"_Aren't you going to help her?"_

_The question was sudden and loud, right next to Daryl, incongruent with the setting he found himself in. He whipped his head to the right and Audrey was __**right there, **__standing beside him and that's when Daryl noticed that he wasn't six any longer, that he was normal height, normal aged, and still glued to his spot by fear. _

_Audrey cocked an eyebrow at him and her expression was hateful, green eyes, like lanterns in the darkness, flashing with the shadowed reflection of his father, still beating his mother into the ground behind him. "Well?" she asked, the words sharp as glass, tone more spiteful than he had ever heard it, even when she had cursed him and Merle out. "Aren't you?"_

_Daryl opened his mouth, tried to say something, anything, he didn't know what, couldn't even begin to think, but the kid just sneered at him, eyes dragging contemptuously up and down his frame before she spat in his face, saliva like acid as it ate at his skin. "Knew you were nothing but useless trash Dixon," she snarled and Daryl flinched at her tone, her words. "Worthless inbred."_

_And then she was slipping away from him, past him, through the bedroom door that was now open and into the dark hall, walking farther and farther away until she was swallowed up by shadows and all that was left behind were her words. He wanted to follow, tried to, for what he didn't know, but shackles dragged him back, tight, digging into the skin of his wrist and ankle, rending flesh from bone. He cried out, sharp and loud, and spun around to free himself only to find his father latched unto his wrist, grinning at him from behind a rotten face, as his mother clawed at his ankle, moaning and gurgling what used to be his name, asking him __**why **__over and over again as her teeth descended towards his skin..._

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><p>Daryl wakes up with a jerk, chest heaving as he blindly gazes up at the blue-grey ceiling of his tent. Sweat beads at his temple, slipping into his hair and the bedding around him is damp with a cold sweat. His heart pounds a stuttered stucco pattern beneath his ribs and his breaths comes short and ragged.<p>

What the _fuck _was that?

He clenches his eyes shut and opens them again, making sure he is awake. When the ceiling of his tent doesn't move, doesn't shift or change, Daryl slowly sits up on the rickety cot that is his bed and runs a trembling hand through his tangled hair. Merle is snoring on his side of their tent, chocking and snorting noises that are the result of a life time of smoking god only knows what. Birds shift in the trees outside and the weak predawn light begins to illuminate the tent but Daryl pays none of these things any mind. His heart is still hammering in his chest, pushing somethin akin to fear through his veins, and the echo of his name continues to whisper in his ears, ghostly and faint, the mere memory of a dream.

That dream…Daryl's never had that dream before. Hell, Daryl hardly dreams anymore period and when he does they're usually chaotic and nonsensical, just flares of colors or images, the flash of teeth or a pair of rheumy, bloodshot eyes. They're never as vivid as this, never as lucid, and Daryl feels sick as he recalls it. Recalls the sight of his house, the rundown shit hole he had spent his whole life in; the wreckage that he and Merle left behind two months ago, when the world finally went tits up and burned to the ground. Recalls his Pa's Chevy that Daryl had sold to a scrap yard two weeks after the bastard died, using the money for a down payment on his own shitty truck. His Pa himself, the son of a bitch that had been gone ten years, long before the dead started comin back to life, long before the walkers.

Walkers…Daryl sucks in a breath at the image of his mother as a walker, rotten and festering, calling out for him as her husband beat her, as she reached for his flesh. It was fuckin stupid, crazy. Lilah Dixon had been dead for decades, stiff and six feet under since he was eight. She didn't live long enough to see this shit, to be bitten and turned. Cancer's what took her; wasted her away until nothin was left but skin and bones. She had never been a walker, neither had his Pa. His head was messin with him. It was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Just a goddamn nightmare. Nothin more.

And yet, as Daryl scrubs at his face and swings his legs down off the cot, he can't stop himself from rubbing his ankle, checking for bite marks as he rubs at his ears, trying to chase away the lingering cries of his Ma, the desperate pleas of his name.

"_Fuck," _he thinks as he starts to get dressed and ready to face yet another shitty day. "_Ima tell Merle to smoke his shit outside the tent from now on. I ain't gonna get high off his second hand smoke if this is the shit that happens." _

Curling his lip in disgust, Daryl kicks his brother's stash bag under the older man's bed, listenin with a dull satisfaction as something made of glass shattered into a million pieces. Serves the fucker right. Speakin of Merle, Daryl glances at the snorin lump that is his brother and kicks the edge of his cot roughly. Merle grunts and mutters incoherently under his breath before flipping over onto his other side, giving Daryl his back. Daryl rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Whatever. He'll wake Merle up later.

Outside, day is barely breaking. The tops of the trees are tinted a pale orange, pink, red, birds darting across the lightning sky. Already, it is warm; borderin on hot and the sun isn't even all the way up. Daryl looks out across camp, blue eyes scannin unconsciously for anythin that could pose a threat. Nothin stands out. Most people aren't even up yet. As of now, all he can see is Walsh sittin on top of the RV, the old man tinkerin with the fire a few yards away and some woman walkin over to him, pots and pans in hand. The scene is normal and flat; the same sight that Daryl had woken up to for the last few weeks. Soon enough, the idiots will have breakfast goin and everyone will come stumblin out of their tents, like roaches out of the woodwork. Daryl scowls and moves over to the rock he had rolled into their small campsite, sitting down with a groan. Might as well get some shit done before Merle gets up and starts talkin shit or, worse, before Walsh comes over and demand he go hunt or some other crap. The former cop was really startin to grate on Daryl. It was only a matter of time before Daryl stabbed him, he was fuckin sure.

Unsheathin the knife at his hip, Daryl reaches down beside him and picks up Merle's own blade that the older man had left outside last night, too out of his mind to think clearly enough to bring the weapon inside just in case. Anger wells within the hunter as he starts to sharpen the two blades against each other, steel on steel. His brother was bein stupid, gonna get himself killed bein too methed up. He had to say somethin to Merle, say somethin before it was too late. Merle might be an asshole and a drug addict but he was the only kin Daryl had left. He'd be damned if he lost him too. Resolved, the young man set down to the task at hand, dragging his and his brother's blades together until the sun was well into the sky and the smell of cooking meat signaled that breakfast was ready.

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><p>"Fuckin tired of this squirrel and beans routine," Merle growls, stabbing at the brown mess on his plate. "Ima growin boy goddamn it. Need me some greens, some venison, wild boar. What're doin in those woods all day, boy? Chasin fuckin faires?"<p>

Daryl ignores him and continues to eat his own meal, shoveling the bland tasting food down his gullet before be can taste the charred and burned flavor, the stickiness of the coolin beans. Merle's been up for less than ten minutes and, already, he's on Daryl's last nerve. Bitchin 'bout this or that, the ache in his back from sleepin on the cot, the headache poundin behind his eyes and, now, the food. Daryl was rethinkin the savin Merle bit. Be lot less trouble without him around.

"Hey! Ya listenin to me Darlina?"

Sighin, Daryl swallows and chases the food down with a gulp of water. "Yeah I hear ya Merle. Not my fault the huntin's shit round here. The city's too close. Most the game's moved on. Ya'd know that if ya came out with me once in a goddamn while."

Merle glares at him from across the ash pit of what used to be their fire. His eyes are hazy and bloodshot, the rims a burning red. The skin on his face is clammy, a sweat beading on his brow that has nothin to do with the heat of the morning. Daryl knows from experience, years of it, that his brother's comin down now instead of goin up and that's always worse to deal with. Merle lifts a hand and jabs a dirtied fork at Daryl, the hand shakin ever so slightly.

"Now don' ya go and start givin me lip boy. Just cuz the world went and ended don' mean I won' kick yer ass six ways to Sunday," he threatens but Daryl doesn't take him seriously. He can take care of Merle, hasn't been truly afraid of him in years. Shaking his head, the hunter just mutters something unintelligible and turns back to his meal. But Merle doesn't want to let it go, maybe can't with all the shit in his system, and he leans forward, knocking Daryl's plate right out of his hand, the last slivers of meat and beans scatterin into the dirt, the plastic pingin off the metal of Daryl's crossbow that rests at his feet.

"Hey!" Daryl cries out, snappin his head up to glare of his brother. "The fuck Merle? I wasn't fuckin done!"

The older Dixon smirks at Daryl's affronted tone, the corner of his eyes crackin into a web of crows feet, makin him look decades older than his 40 years. "Looks like ya are now, don' it?" he laughs, loungin back in his ratty campin chair. The thing is really a piece of shit and it groans in protest of Merle's weight but, by some miracle, it holds true.

Daryl scowls and feels irritation burn through his veins but it's too goddamn early for this and, really, it ain't even worth the trouble to argue. So, instead of gettin in Merle's face, he settles for throwin a few curses his way as he bends down to retrieve his, _now, _empty plate. "Screw you Merle," Daryl growls out. The man just laughs at him and continues to eat, more cheerful now that he's caused his mornin destruction.

"Aww don' ya cry over spilled milk Darlina," Merle coos. He reaches down and snags his canteen off the ground, throwin back his head in such away that Daryl automatically knows he ain't drinkin just water. Merle smacks his lips as he swallows. "Ahh. Now. Since ya ain't doin nothin, why don' ya go out and find some real food, not this measly squirrel crap. Hmm?"

Lips pursed, Daryl clenches his fists, glarin at the cocky, sprawled out figure of his brother. Merle was always givin him shit, always fuckin bustin his balls. Ever since Daryl was little, Merle had been 'toughin' him up; 'makin' him a 'man.' It is goddamn old and Daryl is fed up. He isn't a kid anymore. He is a grown man and he isn't gonna take Merle's shit like a lil bitch anymore. Without even thinkin, Daryl steps forward and grabs the alcohol filled canteen right out of Merle's slack grip, also yankin the not quite finished plate of food from his grasp while he's still gapin.

"Hey! Hey! The fuck ya think ya doin!" Jerkin upright, Merle makes to grab Daryl but the younger man steps out of his reach, tuckin the canteen into the back pocket of his jeans. Merle glowers and gashes his teeth but doesn't get up, knowin how unsteady he'll be on his feet. "Goddamn it. Give it back Darlina." It's not a request.

But Daryl shakes his head in response, a smirk of his own dancin on his lips. "Give what back? Far as I can see, yer plate's clean." Locking his eyes with Merle's, Daryl brings the plate to his mouth and tips his head back, lettin the food slide into his mouth and down his throat. He isn't even that hungry and the food is far from appetizin but it's worth it to see the shocked and pissed expression settle on Merle's features.

"And ya can fuck off Merle cuz I just went huntin two days ago. If ya don't like it, ya can fuckin go out yerself," he drawls back at him. For a minute, Merle just glares at him, pissed off and bristled like a drenched alley cat, but then he just screws up his mouth and spits at Daryl's feet, throwin himself back in his chair as he fishes into the pocket of his filthy jeans. After a moment of searchin, he pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, extractin the last butt from the pack before he balls it up and throws it to the ground.

"Screw you," he mumbles around the smoke, takin an angry drag once he's lit up.

Daryl scoffs. "Whatever. Look Im'a go dump these plates in the bin. After, yer gonna get off yer white ass and go help me check the traps alright?"

Merle just gives him a one-fingered salute in reply. Rollin his eyes, Daryl turns on heel and starts walkin over towards the main part of camp, where the rest of the assholes congregate for meals and where the goddamn RV is parked. Daryl makes it a point to avoid that part of camp as much as possible. He and Merle just stayed here for the numbers, the bodies that they could put in between them and the walkers, if and when they showed up. The Dixons ain't part of whatever fuckin thing the rest of them had goin on here; they ain't part of this group. Daryl gives Walsh the game he's cleaned and then collects his and Merle's share of the meals. That's it, the end of his interaction with the rest of the dumb fucks. He gave them food and they gave him whatever other meager supplies they had. They didn't talk anywhere outside of that.

Well…until recently anyway. Daryl casts a glance at the group that's huddled around the campfire, eatin their breakfast and shootin the shit. He sees the old man who's always givin him shit, that stupid hat perched on his head like he's straight out of "On Golden Pond." He's been worse as of late, always findin a spare moment to call Daryl out on somethin. Bastard. Daryl's eyes stray to the side and see Walsh's fuckin bitch, the loud mouthed cooze who screamed at him 'bout a week ago. All cuz of the _kid. _Know wat? Thisshit was all her fault. Before she came along, Daryl said no more than two words to the rest of camp in a week's time. Now everyone is steppin up to him, sayin shit, jumpin down his throat. Hell, the kid herself never shuts up. Always babblin 'bout some shit or another. Daryl can't get a second's silence. Granted, she isn't as bad as the rest of them, doesn't really bitch or nag, but she is bad enough with her incessant talkin, that journal of hers and her stubborn fuckin ways. Yeah, she's bad enough…just not as bad as the rest of 'em.

Speakin of the kid, Daryl finds himself unconsciously lookin for her in the circle of faces but he doesn't see her. He shoves down the immediate question that pops up in his head, askin why that is and where _she _is. He doesn't give a shit after all. She's only his partner for huntin and seein as Merle's goin with him when he returns, he doesn't need her. So he doesn't care where she is or whom she's with. Doesn't care one goddamn bit.

But then he lifts his head as he arrives at the RV, ready to just dump his plates and get back to Merle before the bastard could get strung out on him, and there she is, not five feet in front of him. The sight of her draws him up short, surprise filterin through his muscles.

He hasn't talked to her, not really, in two days. The last time had been in the clearin where she read Dr. Seuss to him like she thought that shit was funny. Despite all her fuckin around, they had pulled in enough that day to give Daryl some respite, some time to fix and clean his crossbow and knives thoroughly. But she looks…different today; Daryl can't put a finger on why. Unbidden, he finds himself scrutinizing her, the thought tuggin at his mind. He takes in the shitty shoes she has strapped to her feet, ratty things that look about to fall to pieces. But they're the same shoes she always wears, the only pair he thinks she owns. The shorts she has on her legs ain't any different either; nondescript cut offs that have raggedy threads trailing down her thighs. She's bent over, which he tries not to notice, which he _doesn't _notice, so he can't see her shirt but then she's snapping up straight and whirlin around, sudden and instantaneous, and he notices she's wearin a tank top and that's what is different. He can see her shoulders. Ignoring how pale they look, how thin and pointed, Daryl instead zeros in on her face, schoolin his own as blank as he can.

"Jesus H Christ!" she gasps out, her features equal parts startled and annoyed. "Could you like _breathe _or something? I fucking hate it when you do that." Her face is flushed and there is sweat pooling in the hollow of her collarbone but it's her eyes, always her fuckin eyes, which draw immediately Daryl's attention, like goddamn magnets. They're bright as ever and from this distance Daryl can see the flecks of hazel and brown in them, see how the one on the right looks slightly rounder than the left one and suddenly, without preamble, his dream comes back to him full force smacking into him with all the weight of a freight train.

"_Knew you were nothing but useless trash."_

"_Worthless inbred."_

The surprised irritation she sports bleeds into abject hatred as Daryl watches, like a filter clicking over her eyes, and when she opens her mouth he is half expecting her to spit at him, acid and brimstone, but all she does is say, "What?" And, like a flash of lightning, it's all gone, the hatred, the disdainful slash of her mouth and the kid's gazin at him with a tilt to her head, innocent confusion in her green eyes as she stands with her arms crossed over her chest. Daryl blinks at the rapid changes, thrown for a loop himself, his dream suddenly pounding behind his eyes, but he manages to recover some of his composure and grunts somethin bout her bein in his way as he jerks his chin at her. The kid quickly steps out of his way and Daryl immediately just dumps his plates in the bin, on autopilot, because now all he can hear is his mother's voice at his ear and there are flashes of gold hair and rotten flesh skitterin before his eyes.

But then the kid is speakin again, talkin, drownin out the voices in Daryl's head and he finds himself lookin at her, takin in her frown as she scolds him for mistreatin the plastic he's just released. Daryl feels so out of sorts that he just automatically sneers at her, falls back on habits long since ingrained in him.

"Ain't my dishes," he drawls out, callous and barbed. If it were anyone else, Daryl is sure they would have backed away at the sharp edges of his words, backed up with hands in the air and eyes wide, frightened. He's spent years perfectin that response, made sure it was one of the only ones people could come up with around him cuz he doesn't like people and the farther they stayed away from him, the better. But the kid isn't just anyone. She's this stubborn, hardheaded, ballsy scrap of a thing and all she does is roll her gem green eyes, unimpressed with him.

"Yeah but you still eat off them don't you?" she asks and Daryl narrows his eyes at her admonishin tone. She had a mouth on her, the brat. She ain't his Ma and yet here she is, lecturin him like he's a goddamn kid himself. "Show some fucking respect," she continues. "What if I just started throwing your crossbow around huh?"

Daryl has to fight back a smirk at the sudden image of her tryin to heft his crossbow, let alone throw it anywhere. Without thinkin, he glances at the bare skin of her arms, the pale, freckled, expanse that hides taunt strings of muscle underneath. The kid has some power in her, Daryl hasn't forgotten how she kicked Walsh's ass or how she ran like a goddamn deer the first day they met, but she's still slight, made even more so by the lack of substantial food they've been havin, and he doubts she can handle the heft of his crossbow. It's probably more than she even weighs at this point.

He doesn't even bother respondin to her. It's too early in the damn mornin to be arguin with her and Merle is still waitin for him. The fucker's probably snortin more of that crap or smokin his brain away the longer Daryl dicks around here so he's gotta go. He'd talk to the kid later. Maybe. If he needed her help.

But, as he turns to leave, already thinkin of five different ways to curse Merle out, Daryl bumps straight into somethin, a small and thin object that rebounds off his hip and makes this tiny, breathless, squeakin noise. He blinks and it's the lil girl, the blond, quiet one, just suddenly right fuckin there. Their collision has thrown her off balance and she's stumblin back, a cascade of different colored plastic plates tumblin to the ground, clatterin and rattlin somethin awful. When the noise has died down, the girl doesn't move, rigid in her place, like a dog on point 'xcept her eyes are glued on the ground and there's a tremor runnin across her thin shoulders.

Daryl feels like he should be irritated, annoyed on some level, cuz God knows Merle would be damn livid, but he's surprised more than anythin. He hadn't even heard the girl walk up. He tries not to think why that is but Daryl knows, at the back of his mind, the kid behind him is completely at fault. Again.

All of the sudden, Daryl realizes the girl still hasn't moved, is still frozen and starin at her feet, so he shifts forward to pick up the plates. The rest of the assholes 'round here might be annoyin as hell but this girl is still just a kid, no fuckin older than twelve he guesses, and he isn't just 'bout to shove her down and walk off. He ain't Merle and he knows it was just an accident. However, as he goes to help her, the girl starts into action, jerky and fumblin. Still, Daryl tries to help but he hasn't moved two inches when the girl flinches so violently, ya think Daryl had punched her.

The reaction makes Daryl stop dead; his hand freezing in mid air and the air in his lungs drying up in an instant. He knew that movement, that instinctual recoil that was blatant as any fuckin bruise. The girl thought he was goin to hit her, lay his hands on her, and Daryl suddenly feels sick to his stomach because the girl is just blonde enough to stir up his dream again and his Ma is starin up at him from the floor, bruised and beaten, rottin, beggin for Daryl to help save her.

Out of nowhere, a memory crops up to the forefront of Daryl's mind, a real one this time, from years long since passed. It is the memory of his grandmother, a tiny old woman dressed in black as they laid her daughter, Daryl's mother, to rest in the ground. She had grabbed his chin as the mourners walked away from the grave, sharp nails cuttin into his skin as she glared down hatefully at him, her grief drivin her mad.

"_Yer a Dixon boy," _she had snarled and Daryl remembers shakin under the intensity of her wrath. "_Got the same poison in ya. Should be ya and yer goddamn worthless brother and father in the ground instead of my Lilah. Demons, the lot of ya. The only comfort I have is that yer never gonna see my daughter again. They don't let yer kind in the presence of the Lord. Garbage ain't allowed in heaven. Ya know that, don' ya boy?"_

The words, even two decades later, make Daryl's chest grown tight, constrictin so he can't breathe properly. It hadn't been the first time someone called him worthless or trash or anythin of that ilk and it certainly hadn't been the last. And, to some degree, Daryl did deserve it, all those names and shit. But he had _never _hit a child, never entertained the idea, couldn't, not with the scars that he himself bore, the burns and lash marks, and to see this girl cower before him, thinkin he would…

Daryl suddenly needs to get away from here; away from his Ma and this lil goddam girl and those **fuckin** green eyes that he can just _feel _burnin a hole through the back of his neck. The urge electrifies his nerves and, before he knows it, he's already five paces away, just about marchin his way back to Merle. He doesn't look back, doesn't even try, but he can feel those **eyes **on him and his stomach clenches tight as he remembers how hate looks sharp as any blade when it's shinnin from those god forsaken emerald depths.

Merle is right where Daryl left him, though he looks considerably more doped up than when he left him. There's an easy, shit eatin grin spread across his face and a haze to his opaque blue eyes, their Pa's eyes Daryl realizes but shoves away, and the hunter thinks he can see the remnants of Merle's last hit dustin the skin around his nose but he ignores it. He just stomps right past Merle and ducks straight into their tent, eyes castin about for a glance of his crossbow.

Outside the tent, Merle laughs, a half-crazed sound. "Where's the fire lil brother?" he asks. He snorts suddenly and Daryl wonders how much coke he's taken already and how out of his mind he really is.

"Shaddup," Daryl grunts back, irritable and pissed. He finds his bow tucked under his bed, the length of rope he uses to string the game curled beside it. He drags both out roughly and swings them onto his back. As he walks back out, he considers the dryin rack that's leanin against the foot of his cot but descides against it, instead grabbin his brother's rifle that's propped up against the tent's opening. Merle, the lazy ass, is fuckin helpin him today. They'll skin the catch together, outside their tent, when they return. Whether the bastard liked it or not.

Daryl emerges out of the tent and drops the rifle in Merle's lap. The older Dixon looks up at him in annoyed confusion, eyes skitterin around before they blearily focus on Daryl. "The fuck is this," he growls. Unamused, Daryl kicks his brother's chair and moves to sit on the rock across for him.

"It's a gun Merle. Ya shoot things with it," he drawls out. Merle snarls and wrestles the gun into his grasp, cockin in menacingly and Daryl goes the slightest bit tense, even if he doesn't look up.

"What did I say 'bout that mouth Darlina? Ya best shut it if ya wanna keep those pretty lil teeth of yers in yer skull."

Snorting, Daryl swings his leg up and struggles with the laces of his worn out boots, making sure their knotted and double knotted. "Cut the crap Merle," he grits out, not in the mood for his brother's usually shit. "Ya said ya wanted more food so we're gonna go check the traps." Merle opened his mouth to no doubt argue but Daryl cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. "Naw, don't say shit. Yer comin with me and that's fuckin it." Standin up, Daryl jerks his head at the knife he had sharpened this morning, havin left it next to Merle's chair. "Take yer knife too. I sharpened it this mornin so don't be bitchin that it's dull or some other shit."

Merle narrows his eyes up at Daryl and there's a certain edge to his gaze, a certain shape to his mouth, a specific line to his jaw that makes the hunter believe he's gonna argue, and vehemently at that. But, as quickly as the violent look solidifies, it melts away, quicksilver and mercurial. In the blink of an eye, Merle's all grins again and when he stands, which makes Daryl tense again, he just claps his brother on the back good naturedly.

"Well look who's finally grown a pair huh Darlina," he laughed, rufflin Daryl's hair and pullin him into a half-hearted headlock. The amusement in Merle's voice lets Daryl relax slightly and his muscles unclench from their alert and wired positions. Even when the younger Dixon struggles against his brother's hold, it's in an unconcerned matter, more for show than anythin else.

"Shut the hell up Merle," Daryl growls back but the threat lacks true heat. After a few moments of pointless scuffle, the hunter extracts himself and settles a partial glower on his brother, unable to fully cover the smirk pullin at his lips. "Come on ya old sumbitch," he taunts, knowin just how to rile his brother up. "Let's check the traps before ya get any older."

"_Old? _Who the fuck ya callin old? I ain't fuckin old!"

Snickerin under his breath at the affronted and pissed expression of Merle's, Daryl adjusts the strap of his crossbow and makes sure his rope is secured across his shoulders. "Nah? Then prove me wrong," he goads and as Merle begins to curse, he spins on heel and strides into the woods, smirkin when he hears the other man barrel after him not five seconds later.

* * *

><p>Needless to say, the traps are all empty. Daryl isn't really surprised. The game's been gettin scarcer round here. He thinks it's a combination of the camp's proximity to the city and how often he hunts, which is nearly every day. It ain't his fault though. There's a lot of goddamn mouths to feed and it ain't like they can drive to a McDonald's for a Big Mac anymore. But Daryl is gonna have to think of somethin else to solve their food problem.<p>

Or…maybe he won't. Survival of the fittest, right? Less people means less work and more food. It sounds like a logical plan and Daryl entertains the idea for about half a second. But then the image of the damn kid crops up in his thoughts, the hollowed, starvin look that she had worn the first day they met, the sharp, grotesque protrusions of bones beneath frail skin, and he abandons the notion entirely. Stupid brat would never let him just stop huntin anyway. And if she did, she'd probably just try to go out herself and end up gettin killed. That particular thought bothers him; makes him feel like there are ants crawlin beneath his skin. He tells himself it's cuz he'd be out of a partner if she kicked the bucket, left to deal with the rest of the dumb fucks and Merle by himself, not to mention he'd have to go back to the skinnin alone again. That would be a bitch and a half. He ignores all other answers that flit across his mind, images of green eyes and white smiles and the sound of clear, smooth, laughter. The kid was just a business partner. Barely that even. Hell, she probably wouldn't survive till the winter, too soft for this new fucked up world.

The ants start shiftin under his skin again but, like he does more and more frequently these days, Daryl ignores the feelin.

When the last snare turns up empty as the rest, Daryl snarls under his breath and kicks at the ground, frustrated. Damn it. This means he'll have to actually go out and hunt. He's due for another trip but…he shoots Merle a glance and, unfortunately not for the first time, he wishes he had brought the kid instead of his brother. The fact that he wants someone other than his own kin around him makes him slightly ashamed and guilty.

But Merle's too fucked up to be of any real help on a real huntin trip. Hell, even if the traps had been filled, he wouldn't have been much help. For one, he can't shut the hell up. Been talkin nonstop since they left camp, loud and full of bullshit, true Merle Dixon fashion. He just likes to hear himself talk, especially when he's high or drunk and he's a bit of both at the moment, havin stolen his canteen back from Daryl half an hour into their trip. Which brings Daryl to the second reason he wished Audrey were here instead of Merle. His brother can hold his fuckin liquor, ain't no doubt 'bout that, but he's a few sheets into the wind already and stumblin every so often, the pathways from brain to feet muddled and fried. His talkin and stumblin combined, any animal in a mile radius would hear them and, besides that, Daryl wouldn't be able to hear if somethin _other _than an animal was sneakin up on them.

He could leave Merle here, tell him he's gonna go ahead alone and for the other man to return to camp but he has a feelin that Merle wouldn't go without him or, worse, he would and either pass out somewhere in the woods or make it back to camp and start some shit with Walsh again. Both options are screwed up.

Daryl doesn't know when he became his brother's keeper but it irritates him all the same.

Sighin, Daryl swings his crossbow onto his back. "Let's head back," he grumbles.

Merle looks up from where he's, fuckin Christ, peein on a tree, and grins that stupid, insipid, grin again, doped up and methed out. "Well what's the hurry?" he drawls, shakin himself before he tucks it away. "Ya got a hot date I don' know 'bout little bro?

Daryl scowls. "Don't be stupid. There's nothin out here to find Merle and I just don't wanna fuck round. I ain't bout to get bit just cuz ya wanna take a Sunday stroll."

Merle rolls his eyes walks up to his brother, slingin an arm round his neck and pullin him close enough that the hunter can smell the booze and drugs literally oozin from his pores. "Come on now Darlina. Yer too tense. Ain't nothin up here but us and the fuckin trees." As he talks, he steers himself and Daryl towards a fallen log that looks stable enough to hold their combined weight. The younger Dixon tries to slip out of Merle's grasp but it's too tight and he's shoved down before he can protest, forced to sit beside his brother as Merle drops down to the log beside him.

"Kick yer feet up, baby brother," Merle laughs as he pulls his half empty canteen from around his waist. He takes a healthy swig and extends it towards Daryl, jostlin it when all the hunter does is stare and glower. "Don' worry. I'll make sure some dumb dead bastard don' take a bite out of that lily white ass of yers."

Eyes narrowed, Daryl opens his mouth to argue, to decline and just tell Merle to quit the shit and return to camp with him, but at the last second, he decides against it, curlin his fingers around the lukewarm container instead. He knows it's stupid, last thing he needs to do is get fucked up and get them _both _killed, but today's been pretty fucked up already and he needs somethin to take the edge off. Shovin away the protests and warnings of his conscience, Daryl brings the canteen to his lips and knocks back a swallow, shudderin as the alcohol burns a path down his esophagus and settles into a pool of lava in his stomach.

Merle's grin grows at the sight. "Atta boy."

Ten minutes later and Daryl's feelin considerably better. The world's just a tad bit fuzzier but he isn't irritable any more and Merle's babblin doesn't rub him the wrong away. He doesn't talk as much as his brother but he nods and grunts occasionally. Mostly he just accepts the canteen when it's passed to him and takes another swig.

Merle isn't feelin any pain either by this point. He's calm and docile, still loud but almost lethargic as he lounges back on the log, retainin a surprisin amount of balance for someone who is as drunk as he is. Merle got two kinds of drunk: pissed and ready to right or this, lazy and ready to talk some bullshit. Daryl likes Merle this kind of drunk a lot better. He doesn't have to worry bout breakin up no stupid fights or savin some dumb ass before Merle killed him. When Merle's this kind of drunk, all he has to do is nod and listen, mutterin some kind of affirmative every few minutes to keep the peace. It can be rather boring and can become very irritating very quickly but Daryl's got some liquid patience in him now, so it makes it a lot easier.

"Now ain't this nice?" Merle suddenly drawls, elongatin every word so it's like one big slur.

As is his duty, Daryl responds with a noncommittal grunt, blindly reachin out for his turn at the canteen. Pacified, Merle continues. "Shit, we should do this more often. Fuck the rest of 'em. Just the two of us. Dixons. Gettin drunk and havin fun. Like old times."

Daryl almost says _ain't that all ya do Merle_ but instead chases the retort back down with a gulp of whatever Merle seems to have hidden this long somewhere in their tent. His taste buds feel kind of seared off but he ignores it and hands the now almost empty container back to his brother. Merle fumbles for it, squintin likes it's movin on him. Hell, it probably is.

"Ya know what baby bro?" he abruptly asks, finally able to close his fingers around the canteen. Daryl doesn't respond but doesn't have to cuz the question had been rhetorical and Merle is already answerin his own question. "Ya need to relax more often; take the stick that's stuffed up yer ass out once in a while."

Snortin, Daryl shoves his brother, rough enough that the canteen jiggles on the way to Merle's lips and spills down his chin, splashin on the ugly ass vest he always wore and the bare skin of his chest.

"Screw you," Daryl bites out, but even he is slurrin slightly by now and there's no true heat in the words. "'M fuckin relaxed enough. Just cuz I ain't drunk or high all the damn time don't mean I ain't relaxed."

The second the words tumble off his tongue, Daryl half wishes, in the back of his mind, that he could take them back. It's not like they ain't true; they are. But Merle doesn't take criticism very well and, unfortunately, he's very quick to change from the docile drunk to the angry one and Daryl doesn't want to fight with his brother right now, doesn't have the energy nor the balance.

However, Merle surprisingly doesn't get angry; he just finishes his turn and hands the canteen back to Daryl with a grin.

"No need to get yer panties in a bunch. Just fuckin with ya."

Daryl scowls but accepts the drink nonetheless.

There's a few seconds of silence before Merle continues. "So…does a certain jailbait with a tight ass and perky tits have anythin to do with ya bein relaxed baby brother?"

The alcohol abruptly goes down the wrong tube as Daryl inhales sharply in shock and suddenly, the swill is burnin a hole through his lungs as the hunter chockes and coughs and sputters. The chocking fit goes on for a few minutes but when Daryl has enough oxygen in him, he lifts his head, squintin through one watery eye at his brother.

"The fuck?" he gasps, voice rough and scratchy. "What the hell ya talkin bout?"

Somethin akin to fear begins to twist in Daryl's gut, threadin through the haze in his brain. He knows Merle doesn't like Audrey; in fact he nearly hates her. S'kinda why the Daryl and her had kept their…partnership a secret. Daryl needed the help with the catches and she was offerin but Merle would certainly be pissed beyond reason if he knew his little brother was acceptin help from the 'loud mouthed city cooze' as he called her. But, as of late, he hadn't really mentioned her. Maybe it's cuz the kid's been steerin clear of Merle, and Daryl for that matter, unless they were hidden by trees and distance. Daryl doesn't know. All he knows is that his brother hasn't mentioned Audrey in days and now he's bringin her up and Daryl is on edge cuz he doesn't know _why. _

Merle's expression is curiously flat as he stares at Daryl, placid but for a small undercurrent of amusement. "Whatcha mean what? Don' tell me ya ain't noticed. The cooze is a cunt but I bet she'd be all sweet in bed," he leers, lickin his lips in such an obscene way that Daryl simultaneously feels enraged and disgusted.

"Hell nah I ain't thinkin bout the stupid kid like that," Daryl snarls and, even to his own ears, his tone sounds defensive. He scowls and spits to the side, tryin to look apathetic and indifferent even when a whirlwind of irate emotions is wellin inside of him. "Ya said it yerself, she's a loud ass…cunt." He stutters on the last words cuz, unbidden, Audrey's face flashes in his mind, smilin and…not pretty. She isn't pretty. She's a cooze, a cunt. Daryl tries to repeat this in his head cuz if he can't convince himself, he can't convince Merle. "She's like the rest of 'em. Bunch of assholes I can't goddamn stand."

Merle narrows his eyes but he's smilin again, or smirkin; it's really hard to tell with him. "Aww come on now. Ya sayin ya wouldn't bump some uglies with her? Ya wouldn't even have to listen to her if ya tie her up, gag that flappin jaw of hers." His tone is joking enough but there is somethin beneath it, a certain keenness to the suggestion, that makes Daryl think Merle ain't all that jestin after all.

The mere thought of what Merle has said makes Daryl feel sick, nauseous and like he wants to vomit. To mollify his brother, to make him drop the subject and move unto somethin else, Daryl knows he should agree, should laugh and make some kind of degradin comment. But he _can't, _he just can't; not when the image of those green eyes burn into him even through a memory and not with the memory of what they looked like full of hate, full of disgust and disdain. The kid's only a business partner but…she's useful enough and she's…she hasn't done anythin for Daryl to hate her, not like the rest of them. The hunter might not like people, has tried to steer clear of them his entire lifetime, but he ain't his Pa and he ain't Merle and the kid's done nothin wrong. It's cuz of that, cuz Daryl still retains some memories of his Mama and the manners she taught him, of returnin favors and bein kind when shown kindness, that he can't force himself to side with his brother in this, not even in theory. He tells himself it's just boils down to the fact that he doesn't want to be like his Pa, an all around abusive bastard, but, at the back of his mind, Daryl begins to think it's cuz of somethin else too, though he can't name what.

Still, he shakes his head harshly at Merle. "Naw. Don't want nothin to do with her. Don't need the trouble." Really needing it now, he takes another guzzle of the alcohol still in his hand and then shoves it roughly at the other man. "Ya want the rest of this or ya wanna keep takin crap?" he grunts.

He lifts his head and looks the older Dixon in the eye and starts as he sees somethin but by the time he blinks, it's gone and Merle is grinnin from ear to ear as he takes the canteen and goes to finish it off. "Knew I taught ya to be smart baby bro," he chuckles cryptically. He tilts the glass at Daryl, as if in a toast, and downs the rest of their drink.

Daryl mutters somethin in reply, what he doesn't remember, cuz all he can think about as he sits across from his brother is the look Merle had in his eyes mere seconds ago, a cold, way too lucid, calculatin gaze that no man as drunk as Merle could accomplish. It must have been a trick of the light or the booze in Daryl's own veins. He'd imagined it.

He _had _to have imagined it.

* * *

><p>After the two Dixon brothers finish their midday drinkin, they recheck the traps, albeit slower than before, one last time just in case Fate were to smile on them. But Fate is a cold-hearted whore and they found nothing more than they had hours previous: whole lot of fuckin nothin.<p>

By the time they make their way back to camp, it's already mid-afternoon and hot as hell. Daryl doesn't feel nearly as drunk as he did an hour ago and he thinks he's probably sweated out all the booze before they even hit the camp's perimeter. It's right when the two of them run into the road that leads down to the quarry that Merle suddenly veers off. Daryl stops in his tracks and calls out to his brother but Merle just waves him off, walkin backwards, pretty straight for the amount of alcohol he drank, and tells him he's gonna go take a dip in the lake. The hunter considers goin with him but Merle must have realized his plan cuz he told Daryl to fuck off and that he didn't need his baby bro pervin over him when he 'chocked the chicken.'

Flushin red, Daryl had flipped him off and told him not to drown cuz he wasn't goin to come down to the quarry and resuscitate him if he had his pants 'round his ankles. Merle had only laughed and turned on heel, struttin down the road and sayin he'd be back in an hour or so. Daryl would be lyin if he didn't say he was slightly worried for his inebriated brother but Merle was a big fuckin boy and could take care of himself. Or so Daryl hoped.

When Daryl arrives back at camp, he makes a beeline for his tent and fishes out his own canteen, half full of _water _this time, and chugs it down. His mouth still feels cottony and his head is still a bit fuzzy but it ain't that bad. For now at least. Daryl really hopes he doesn't wake up with a hangover tomorrow mornin.

Since he hadn't brought any game back, Daryl feels kind of listless. He putters around their campsite for a while, pickin things up and catalogin how many clean clothes he and Merle had left so he could figure out when it was time to do the laundry again. The rest of camp did their laundry together, a communal thing, but Daryl would be damned if he let some strangers wash his clothes like he's some invalid of goddamn child. He's a grown man. He'd do his own clothes.

After he's finished with that, he pulls his crossbow into his lap and checks the string and the fletching on each of his arrows. He's been pretty good on maintainin the thing so there's not much that needs to be done. Within a handful of minutes he's finished and randomly decides to fish out his spare knife from beside the dryin rack in his tent. He doesn't use this one as often, it's small and not as useful, but it could use for some sharpenin so he sets down to hone the blade on a spare piece of steel he had found God only knows where.

For a few minutes, it's blissfully quiet and blissfully calm. There's the hiss and grate of metal, the hum of the ever present cicadas, and the wind in the trees; Daryl can barely even hear the rest of the camp, a dull undercurrent, a quiet murmur, like the sounds of waves lappin against the shore. But then, as the hunter flips the knife in his hands, inspectin the edge, the white hot glint, a sudden realization comes to him, the thought that this is the blade that he lends to Audrey when they go out on their 'hunts' and his movements falter, fumble and stutter because holy crap, the kid just hasn't left him _**alone**_ today, or at least the thought of her hasn't. Since that stupid ass dream this mornin, she's been constantly at the back of his mind, in one way or a-goddamn-nother. Daryl can't say why and it pisses him off. His movements grow more forceful, the blade scrapin harshly against the metal piece but the hunter isn't payin much attention. He's too busyin tryin to figure out why the kid is circlin round his head, like a broken damn record, too busy tryin to find another station, another tune to fuckin sing to.

But he can't cuz she sticks out like a sore thumb in all his thoughts. It's irritatin. He remembers random things about her at odd times and he doesn't _want to_. Yet they are there all the same, memories of spare phrases and the way her voice drawls them out. The way her face looks when she reads, chewin her lips and that crease between her eyes as she concentrates. It isn't like Daryl _stares _at her all the time; it's just…she's confusin and Daryl has a good memory with a hunter's attention to detail.

Perhaps, more than anythin, it's the fact that she's been here almost a month now and Daryl **still** can't get her number. He just can't seem to understand her. She just pops out of the woods one day and by the next, she's perfectly assimilated into this shitty little group they've got goin here. Without even tryin, she has everyone wrapped around her deft, calloused fingers: Walsh, the women, the kids, the chink…_everyone. _They all love her; _Saint fuckin Audrey_. She reads to the little brats round camp and pulls her own weight: takes watch, does her share of chores and then some when someone is slackin or protestin about _how hot it is _or how they are _too tired, _all without complaint_. _Even if she didn't do all that, she's all kind and bright smiles and Daryl's sure the idiots would love her anyway, just for her personality.

Which is why the hunter still can't fathom why the hell she bothers comin round _him_. She's said on multiple occasions that she just wants to help…but no one is that fuckin nice. Daryl's been with the rest of these assholes for nearly two months and, after they found out that he could do more with that crossbow than just look intimidatin, they didn't say shit bout it, just assumed he'd do it for fuckin free, not even botherin to offer any help. And Daryl's done it; mostly to make up for the shit Merle pulls every few days but also cuz, like he's rationalized to himself before, there's security in numbers. But the kid hadn't been in camp three days before she was jumpin to be of some use. Daryl had turned her down, flat, with a kick to the teeth to further emphasize his point and yet she still came back. Granted, after she verbally beat his ass and called him out for bein a dick but it wasn't his goddamn fault ok? He wasn't used to this…interactin with people that didn't include fightin and he certainly wasn't used to acceptin no help.

Still…she tried again, when no else would even bother to try the first time, and, what's more, she **was **helpful. She ain't no tracker, too uncoordinated and awkward, the mark of a city kid, but she did her best and took Daryl's advice when he barked it at her. No arguin, no sneerin at him like she thought she was better. Nothin. Whenever she didn't know how to do somethin, she asked, deferred to Daryl as the expert and didn't try and pretend to know shit when she didn't. She was…different than every other bastard in that aspect. And, cuz of it, the traps got cleared a lot faster, the skinnin done in half the time, even if she wasn't a fast as Daryl at cuttin the meat. It was…nice. Daryl squirmed mentally at the word, he wasn't no sissy or pansy, but it was fuckin nice to have some help, even if he would never say it out loud.

Now, if that were all the kid did…Daryl thinks that maybe he would understand her. He could understand doin what one had to in order to eat, shovin away differences and dislikes to survive. If all the kid did was follow him along, skin and cut, and then leave, without sayin one word in between, he'd know that she was only doin it to stay alive. And that would be fine with him. Every man and woman for himself or herself right?

But that isn't all she did.

Daryl recalls the first time they went out together, the day where he was literally _this _close to punchin Walsh in the mouth and laughin when he spat out his teeth. He had thought the kid had followed him to just echo Walsh's lil fuck buddy, demand some more shit or just be overall irritatin. But she proved him wrong, turnin out to be decent enough to provide some help. However, that wasn't what confused him, what haunted him now. He already said he could understand the helpin bit. It was the part that came _after _the helpin that threw him for a loop: the part where she stayed despite bein attacked by a weasel; the part where she actually cracked some jokes and laughed and offered him a goddamn _lollipop _for Christ's sake; the part where she didn't blame him for gettin hurt, at least not enough to resent him, and didn't…didn't curse at him, mutter insults under her breath like the other assholes thought he couldn't fuckin hear. She just…sat beside him, didn't even seem bothered by it like…like she actually kind of was ok with spendin time with him, even if at the time it had been strictly business, at least for Daryl.

And that wasn't even the worst of the confusion that the kid brought on. Even after she was sliced to ribbons, worked good and hard until she was sweatin and pretty worn out from trekkin through the woods, she still had enough energy to not only come back to finish the job of cleanin the game…but also to defend him to the rest of the assholes, even if none of her injuries were really his fault in the first place. That bit struck Daryl dumb and perhaps made him respect the kid a bit more. Blamin him would have been the easy way out, just one point of the finger and she wouldn't have to say one word more, everyone rallied against the hunter that hurt their golden child. But she took the more difficult path, defendin him, lyin for the both of them so she could keep goin out on hunts with him. Daryl thinks that it's cuz she did that…that he had gone to her a few days later, when Merle had dug under his skin and he was so irritable he was ready to shoot somethin. Now, he hadn't gone lookin for her, nothin like that. But, when he found her, he didn't just slip away like he would have done with anyone else, unnoticed, just the way he liked it. No, instead he spoke up, makin her notice him and then he had actually chosen to sit beside her, be near another living bein when at any other time, he wouldn't have even considered the idea. At the time he had told himself it was cuz he wasn't bout to return to camp and deal with all that shit that was there and, also, the quarry was the most open space in the immediate area, ideal for makin sure nothin snuck up on him.

But, in all honestly, which he would never voice anywhere outside his own thoughts, the kid was all right to be around. The mutterin had annoyed him at first but after hearin her explaination, modest and truthful and so goddamn innocent…Daryl let it go. Even felt a bit guilty for snappin at her, and Daryl never felt guilty about anything; wasn't in the Dixon blood to feel sorry and he _was _a Dixon, through and fucking through.

And yet, that day, and every day after, he had done somethin un-Dixon like, somethin Merle would probably beat him for if he knew: he actually asked her bout that book of hers, that _journal. _He didn't know what possessed him that day but the question had tripped off his lips before he could stop it and he couldn't take it back so he went with it. And the kid had answered.

Now, contrary to belief, Daryl isn't a redneck idiot. He had gone to school; graduated high school and all that shit. He had even taken some courses at the community college in town, after Merle had gone to prison for a five-year stint that was. He hadn't been the cream of the crop but he wasn't the bottom of the barrel neither. He got decent grades, could read and write and fuckin add. But he had never been particularly partial to any one subject and to hear how…enthralled the kid was with some fuckin _words…_Daryl wanted to say he didn't care but the way her eyes had lit up, the way she had bit her lip and looked at him, waitin for his response, his judgment…he couldn't lie. It had interested him, a first in nearly a decade. He didn't understand why she liked those…_poems _so much…but somethin in him, somethin he had never really paid attention to, not since he was offered the job at the mechanic shop, not since Merle got out of the joint, not since the world went and _ended, _wanted to find out, wanted to _learn_.

That's why he had accepted her bet. If she won…then he would understand; and if she lost…well… then he had somethin over the kid. He doesn't know what he'd ask for if he won…hell, at this point, he doesn't even know if he _wants _to win. The look in her green eyes when she read those liltin words…Daryl doesn't recall a time he ever looked that happy. It confuses him and makes him want somethin he can't even name or recognize but he's gone to her anyways, sat beside her as she read poem after poem, listenin to her voice and feelin more calm than he has any memory of. He still snaps at her, growls and grunts, but it's mostly for his own benefit cuz she's still just a partner, a business partner, nothin more cuz she _can't _be more, cuz he doesn't _want _more.

The memory of her standin in the dyin light of the sun, blood on her wrists, his dryin rack under her arm and forgiveness on her tongue comes back to Daryl now and he pushes away the thought that he doesn't _have _to want more cuz he already has more, no matter if he insists on callin it any less or by some other name.

Without preamble, a snatch of somethin the kid had read to him flits across his mind. "_A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." _(1)

And shit. Now Daryl's spoutin flowery crap. Fuckin great. Merle is gonna kick his teeth in.

The thought of Merle makes Daryl flinch in remembrance and there is a flare of pain as his knife slips and a nick blooms across his finger. "Hell," he curses under his breath, stickin the bleedin appendage in his mouth, suckin away the crimson liquid. He pulls out his finger and inspects the injury but it isn't that bad. It's barely a paper cut, even though it bleeds a bit more cuz of the alcohol in his system, and he soon picks up the knife again. The steel is plenty sharp already, glintin almost white in the afternoon sun, stained with drops of scarlet now, but Daryl needs somethin to keep his hands busy as anxiety twitches under his skin.

What Merle said early today, the half serious comment about tyin Audrey up...it still makes his gut roll. Even if Daryl _hated _Audrey…he would never do somethin like that; would never…**force **himself on a woman. Just like he would never hurt a child. His Pa had been the bastard to do that shit and Daryl had vowed at the age of five, when he found his Ma cryin in the bathroom, a fresh shiner on her eye, that he would never be anythin like George Dixon.

Merle is a different story though but he's kin and, for better or worse, Daryl is gonna stick by his side. His brother is all…well…the most _important _thing he has left anyway. He ain't bout to fight with him, especially over a business partner.

"Can we talk?"

The sudden words, and the voice that Daryl can now tell anywhere, make him start because holy shit, this is the second mother fuckin time someone has snuck up on him. The hell is wrong with him today?

He keeps sharpenin, an automatic, mechanical motion now, to hide his abrupt surprise, his guilt, and his worry. The surprise is self-exclamatory, the guilt is for his thoughts, not even his thoughts really, his brother's but he felt ashamed nonetheless, and the worry is for his brother himself. If today is any indication, Merle really does not care for the kid and if he sees her _here, _talkin to Daryl, he'll be livid.

Where the hell is Merle anyway? How long has Daryl been sittin here, lost in his head? The hunter doesn't know, can't guess as to when his brother will return, so when he looks up he makes sure to inject a coldness to his gaze, a harshness to the set of his jaw.

Audrey stands a few feet in front of him, jitterin in place and she looks nervous, on edge, glancin over his shoulder and Daryl thinks he knows why.

"Merle ain't here," he says and keeps the _but I don't know where he is and why the hell are you here _to himself.

The kid frowns and tilts her head in confusion, her short hair splayin across the line of her jaw, dark strands on pale skin. "What?" she asks and Daryl repeats himself, puttin the knife away before he cut himself again, distracted by the kid herself now instead of just the thought of her. He's surprised when she says she wasn't lookin out for Merle cuz, before now, she'd been real careful to only talk to Daryl when they were sure Merle couldn't see or hear them. He's confused as to why she's riskin Merle happenin upon them now and, with all the shit that circlin in his head, he can't help the sharpness of his next words.

"So what do ya want?" He feels exposed and vulnerable. He wants the kid gone. Not for good or anything. Just from _here, _for _now. _He'd find her later or somethin but he feels like Merle's bout to pop out of the treeline and it makes him feel anxious.

Audrey seems to ignore the edge to his words, or just doesn't notice it, and only fidgets for a moment, wrappin her arms around herself, drawin Daryl's gaze for a split second to the exposed skin of her shoulders and bare arms, before she cuts right to the chase and blurts out, "We need to go hunt again."

Daryl is surprised at her admission and more than a little annoyed cuz it's like she knows how he failed today and she's shovin it in his face and he knows it's illogical to think that but it's what he feels all the same and he growls insults at her, more caustic to her than he had been in days. The kid scowls at him then, sparked by his anger, and Daryl is sure she's gonna snap back at him or argue or just storm off, that's what everyone else does when he is in a bad mood, but she's not everyone else and she never ceases to stun him.

In the blink of an eye, Audrey goes from irritated…to somethin else. Somethin small and fragile cuz she takes a step forward and drops to the ground, curlin in on herself like she is tryin to ward off somethin bad and harmful. She looks young with her knees up to her chin and Daryl narrows her eyes cuz…in that moment she reminds him of the little girl he bumped into today. It's a look she has in her eyes, the look that seems very similar to _fear. _He wants to ask her what's wrong, the desire is sudden and burnin through his veins, but the kid answers his unasked question before he can open his mouth.

"We're running out of food Daryl."

He barely catches the whisper, has to nearly lean out of his seat to do so, but when his head registers what she has just said, he's irritated again. "Out of…we just brought a haul back two days ago," he reminds her cuz _he _doesn't need to be reminded. He knows full well they'll have to go out probably today or tomorrow but they have enough food to tide them over until their next trip. Even if the meat is low, the others have supplies the chink has scavenged from the city. He doesn't know why this warrants him needin to know.

But the acidic aggravation fades away the second the kid's next sentence hits the air.

"I know," she says and her voice is hoarse and desperate and Daryl can't stay mad when he hears the near plea in her voice, beggin for him to listen. "I was there remember? But I was talking to Glenn this morning…it's almost all gone. And it's not just the meat. Like…_everything _almost gone. Glenn says we have about three days before it's all used up. After that…"

She trails off, apparently unable to continue. But the hunter doesn't need to hear her final words to understand what she's gettin at. They're about to starve, all of them, and it's partially Daryl's fault.

**Fuck. **He'd noticed the game was gettin thinner but he just assumed the other idiots would have enough canned goods and shit to supplement the lack of kill Daryl and Audrey were haulin in. Stupid. What the hell was he thinkin, trustin the dumb asses, assumin they'd have _any _foresight to not let the supplies dwindle done to nothin before they realized, _oh hey, maybe we should fuckin restock. _Daryl wants to kick himself. He knew not to assume, to assume only made and ass outta you and me, as his Ma had thought him from an early age. But he's been distracted recently and, although he should blame the kid for that, he doesn't, puttin all the blame on himself instead cuz he knew better and he can't believe…

Daryl stops that particular line of thought in its tracks. What's done is done. He fucked up. He can't change it. All he can do is try and fix it before they all die of, ain't that a bitch, starvation in a goddamn apocalypse where dead people were shamblin round eatin people.

His mind immediately starts to turn, hits the ground runnin, cogs and wheels and gears grindin in this head. First things first, he'll need to go out and _really _hunt, not just mess round camp like he had been doin recently, stickin to the traps, makin it easier for Audrey to follow. He needs to leave the city behind, get farther out into the woods, like he had been the day he first ran into the kid. A trip like that will take a few days, at the least, if Daryl hopes to find anythin big enough to bring them back from the brink. Shit, he's gonna have to pack a few supplies and aw hell, what about Merle?

...Fuck it. Merle will just have to stay; can't be trusted to be lucid enough to do anythin but hinder Daryl and Daryl needs _help _not hinder. Speakin of help…what about Audrey? She'll want to come, like always, but the more he thinks about it, the more Daryl realizes he's gonna leave her behind too. She's eager and a quick learn but she doesn't have Daryl's years of stealth practice and, while trackin, she's bout as graceful as a bull in a china shop. She'll just scare shit off before the hunter can catch sight of it. Ok so no Merle and no kid. Daryl's gonna go out alone. He's just about to start considerin which direction he'll head, which locations he's had luck with in the past, when there's a sudden touch to his wrist and he becomes aware of a stingin pain in his fingertips.

Daryl jerks his head up and, suddenly, the kid is **right there, **inches from him, her green eyes shinnin up at him and her slim, calloused fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging his arm towards her. "You're bleeding," she whispers at him and Daryl's gaze is drawn to the pink of her lips and how they form the words, the shapes they mold to and…

He wrenches his arm away from her and wipes his fingers on his jeans, realizin now that he can taste the copper on his tongue that he had torn the skin of cuticles again. It was a bad habit of his, one of many that he can't seem to break.

The kid clears her throat abruptly and asks the question Daryl knew had been only a matter of time before it was asked. Shakin his head to gather his wits, and shake away the feel of her skin on his, Daryl stands and grabs his crossbow. Not lookin at the kid, he tells her his plan, how he's goin out alone but she doesn't take it well, vaultin off the ground and plastered almost chest-to-chest with him before he can blink.

"What do you mean _you're _going hunting? I'm coming with you," she says forcefully, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw that Daryl knows will just make this all the more difficult.

He tries to show her he ain't dickin around, conjurin up his fiercest glare to make her back down. "_No, _you ain't," he growls out but she's so fuckin _hardheaded _and demands to know a reason. He intends to be diplomatic about it, as diplomatic as a Dixon can, but the kid just pushes his buttons and he nearly spits his response, all the shit he had tumblin in his head, in her face.

"Cuz goddamn it. I ain't about to fuckin starve and there ain't anything bigger than squirrel left round here. If ya don't want to _die, _I have to go farther out, away from the city. Spend a good day or two trackin a buck or doe. And I can't do that if yer tramplin along after me, scarin everythin off!"

Audrey gapes at him when he's finished, mouth flappin open, green eyes wide and gem bright and Daryl is suddenly so frustrated, with her, with the situation, with _himself, _that he just thinks **fuck **it as he tries to stalk off, supplies and plans be damned. He's made it a few days without food before; he doesn't need anythin. Just his crossbow and knife and the skills he's had ingrained in him from a young age, really the only good thing Merle has done for him in his whole life.

But the kid won't _let him go. _She **chases **him, from his tent all the way to the edge of camp, a distance Daryl has no recollection of crossin, and grabs his arm before he can slip under the shitty string of cans the idiots have strung up for "security." He's thrown off balance by her whirlin him around and he's cussin up a storm before her words cut him off.

"Let me come with you," she pants and _Christ. _This kid is as stubborn as a dog with a goddamn bone.

He glares down at her, realizin randomly how short she is compared to him, half a head smaller, as she gazes right back at him, unrepentant. "Did ya not just fuckin hear-" he tries again but she won't let him get a word in edgewise.

"I heard," she interrupts. "And I still think I should go with you. "Look. I know I'm not exactly light on my feet, at least not in the woods. But I'll do my best to stay quiet. I'll step where you step; breathe when you breathe. I won't say a fucking word. Just…please. _Please_ let me go with you."

She's desperate by the end of it, down right beggin. Her eyes are as wide as the fuckin moon and she's so close, Daryl can see every detail of her face. He can see that the pink bow of her lips is chapped and dry, split skin, and how the bottom lip is just _slightly _plumper than the top. He can see that her nose is twisted to the left, just a bit, crooked startin halfway down the bridge. He hasn't noticed it before but she has freckles scattered across her face, everywhere, small and unnoticed on her forehead but growin more prominent over her nose and cheeks, like an unmapped galaxy. And, of course, her eyes. Framed by a forest of thick, dark lashes, they're greener than anythin he's ever seen, a thin ring of hazel around the pupil and a darker, forest green long the edges of the iris, an emerald sea trapped between the two rings. Those eyes never fail to befuddle him, whittle down the walls and spikes he tries to throw up in defense with their goddamn open, window like quality and he already feels himself weakenin, surrenderin, but he still asks her **why, **one last time, to keep up appearances of his adamant resolve.

Audrey shudders in a breath, lips parted and Daryl can't help but oscillate between her mouth and eyes as she responds. "Because how else are you going to drag back some big ass deer all by yourself?" she asks and Daryl realizes he never really thought of how hard that would be, how he's always had his truck or, on the **very** rare occasion, Merle, to help him haul an animal that big in. But she's still talking and, unsurprisingly, she makes more than more valid point. "Not to mention watch your back so a walker doesn't come up and bite you in the ass? You can't, not alone." He doesn't think she realizes it but, as she finishes her reply, Audrey takes half a step forward and speaks the words into Daryl's very goddamn lungs.

"I just want to help Daryl," she says earnestly. "Just like I said before. Just help you…and help everyone else here, make sure they don't go hungry."

The moniker that Daryl had given her earlier comes back to him again. _Saint fuckin Audrey. _He would say she was full of shit if she didn't know her, didn't know how damn, honest to God, _**truthful, **_she was bein. And then, like in a cliché cartoon lightbulb, a realization comes to him in that instant.

She had come to _him. _Not Walsh, the self-proclaimed king boss of their little spinnin glass ball world. Not the chink, who, he's pretty sure, is in love with her by the way he follows her round, wide-eyed and trippin over his dick. Not that he'd noticed or anythin. But back to his point. The kid…_Audrey, _had come to him when she was concerned, when she was, _is, _scared. Daryl thinks about what that must mean. All he can come up with is that…she trusts him, enough to confide in him. God only knows why but she does. And Daryl isn't sure, has never experienced this himself, but he thought trust was somethin ya only gave to _friends _and he realizes, right then, that no matter how **he** views her, what **he** labels or defines her has, _she _considers him her friend and, honestly, he has no idea what to do with **that **fuckin piece of knowledge.

For a moment, he contemplates refusing her out right, bein as big of a dick as possible so as to shove her away, take away the risk before it became dangerous. He had told her before, he doesn't need a goddamn friend, has never _wanted _one. But he puts the idea to rest just as soon as he thinks it cuz…he still needs a partner and, no matter what she saw _him _as, he would never consider her anythin more. Daryl Dixon knew what he wanted and what he didn't. He could keep the lines dividin the two clear as damn day.

And to prove that, he agrees to take her, tellin her to keep the fuck up cuz he ain't stoppin for nothin.

Audrey breaks out into a smile, all teeth and laugh lines. "Since when have you ever?" she retorts and Daryl rolls her eyes and tells her to just shut up and follow him before they loose the light. She starts to move towards him but they she stops suddenly and her brow furrows and Daryl can't suppress the groan of, "The fuck's wrong now?"

She stares past him, obviously thinkin, and points out that they'll need supplies, the very things Daryl had decided to forgo a few minutes ago. He'd still be willin to go without them but the kid's already movin away, sayin how it'll only take a minute or some shit.

He's watchin her turn her shoulder when a sudden impulse seizes him and he's already grabbin for her arm before he can stop himself. Her skin is warm and smooth beneath his palm and she casts a curious look over her shoulder and Daryl flounders for a moment cuz he doesn't know why he grabbed her, but he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Then we're leavin alright? No more fuckin around." Even to his own ears, the words don't sound as firm and authoritative as he meant them to. The kid notices too and smirks, placin two fingers to her brow in a mock salute, sayin, "Yes sir," in a deep, and obviously tauntin voice.

Daryl has half a moment to want to say somethin in retort but the kid is suddenly goin rigid in his grasp and the hunter is equally confused and concerned by the shaky exhale that she chokes out. He thinks she must see something and the word **walker **flares across his thoughts, bright as a neon Vegas sign, and he snaps his head up to find the source of her shock.

It's the lil white boy, the cooze's son, the one Walsh was always dotin on. He's standin a handful of yards away and Daryl opens his mouth to tell him to fuckin beat it and go back to his mother and goddamn, it's only the goddamn apocalypse, why was no one watching the damn child? And what is with Daryl not hearin jack **shit** today?

But the boy is stutterin somethin, eyes bulgin and face pale and Daryl hears Audrey try to respond, her own words fallin ass over tits on themselves and the boy starts shakin his head, whipin it back and forth as he stumbles away and suddenly, he's goddamn screamin.

"_Mom! Shane!"_

He's gone is a flash of a red shirt and blue jeans and Daryl blinks after him. Somethin about the boy's voice, a certain tremble to his words, makes the hunter's lips purse and eyes narrow. The boy had been upset, that much was clear and ya'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to realize it. It was understandable; the little brat idolized Audrey and hearin that she was leavin, so abruptly, for a reason he doesn't know, fucked up the boy's little perfect world. But, if Daryl didn't know better…he'd say the brat had sounded…almost…_frightened. _Why would he be scared though? Audrey was fine and…oh fuck wait. The boy had called _Walsh's _name didn't he? Shit. If that son of a bitch came down here now, Daryl and Audrey would never leave. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. They needed to leave like _five _minutes ago and…

Suddenly, the kid is whirlin around, expression wild and eyes on fire but before she can say a word, her name is screamed out behind her and Walsh comes barrelin through the tree line like a chargin bull, a whole line of idiots behind him. Daryl goes rigid as he catches sight of all the people, he is never in the same vicinity as this many of 'em and everyone is wearin similar expressions of fear and anger and what are they all lookin at _**him **_like that for?

He swings his gaze to glare at Shane, about to ask what his goddamn problem is, but the former cop's own expression stops him short. The other man's mouth is a thin line, his nostrils are flared, and his eyes are full of hate, locked on to a point near Daryl's waist, between him and the kid and…

It hits him like a ton of bricks and he drops the kid's wrist like it was burnin him but Walsh just looks even more livid and Daryl begins to think he knows why they are all lookin at him like _that. _

"Dixon," Walsh snarls and Daryl can hear all the hate the former cop has for him in the way he spits his name out like it tastes like shit. "What's goin on here?"

Daryl opens his mouth to tell him it's none of his goddamn business, cuz it really fuckin wasn't; what Audrey and him did was between the two of them and it kept the rest of them fed so they had no right to say **shit. **

But the kid beats him to it, stutterin out some stupid soundin reply that only makes Walsh curl his lip and narrow his eyes at Daryl like he's thinkin of shootin him here and now. The hunter meets his glower head on and snarls silently in defiance. He ain't scared of no fuckin cop who thinks he's the shit just cuz he wore a badge in another life time. Shit like that don't count for nothin any more. All that matters is brute strength and who can think fastest on his feet. Survival of the fittest, like Daryl had said.

Walsh bares his teeth slightly in enraged revulsion and grinds out his next words so harshly Daryl's surprised pieces of his teeth don't come with them. "Carl said Dixon grabbed you," he starts, directin his words at Audrey, but Daryl doesn't even hear the endin of his sentence, the first five words resoundin in his skull.

"_Carl said Dixon grabbed you…"_

"_Carl said Dixon grabbed you…"_

"_**Dixon**__ grabbed __**you**__…"_

And all of the sudden, Daryl feels sick again and he can taste bile in the back of his throat, acidic and overly sweet. That's why he had sounded frightened. The boy…that fuckin lil boy had ran back to camp and told the rest of these fuckers that Daryl had **grabbed **Audrey, like he was doin somethin she didn't want, she he was **hurtin **her. It's just like that little blonde girl, the girl that Daryl can see peekin out from behind her Mama's legs, wide-eyed and **scared. **His eyes flickered over to the brat that had started all this and that same frightened look is in his eyes and it's in everyone else's eyes, the whole audience Daryl and Audrey had drawn, and it makes him so pissed he's physically _**sick.**_

The whole lot of them are lookin at him like he's some kind of monster, somethin to be reviled and hated and Daryl's never hit a woman, never laid a hand on a child, has only come to physical blows with Walsh **once** and yet they are all gazin at him like he should be locked up or, better yet, put down. He's kept them fed for two months, only takin a few supplies for Merle and himself, and they treat him like a rabid, feral, dangerous _beast. _

He's aware that the kid is talking, sayin shit that Walsh is respondin to and that the rest of the group is pitchin their two cents into, but he can't hear them, not over the roar of blood in his ears and definitely not over the words that are screamin in his head.

"_Sweetheart? Are you there? Help me. Daryl, please help me."_

"_Aren't you going to help her? __**Well?**__ Aren't you?"_

"_Knew you were nothing but useless trash Dixon." _

"_Worthless inbred."_

"_Demons, the lot of ya."_

"_Garbage ain't allowed in heaven. Ya know that, don' ya boy?"_

Daryl suddenly tastes copper on his tongue and realizes he's bitten through his cheek, scarlet metal coatin the inside of his mouth. It jerks him away form his thoughts and he's about to wrench away from this cluster fuck of a mess when the kid's voice pierces through the haze in his mind, bright and clear and sharp.

"You don't have to worry," she's saying and the hunter doesn't know whom she's takin to but his next words make him balk. "Daryl and I have actually gone hunting together in the past."

And there it was, out in the open, exposed to the air, their "dirty little secret."

She…admitted it, easy as hell, and there's somethin akin to pride in her voice and Daryl can only see the back of her head but he can tell it's held high and can almost imagine the stubborn tilt to her jaw. He doesn't understand what's goin on but when Walsh grunts sometin caustic, glarin at Daryl over Audrey's shoulder, he gestures to her face and Daryl knows everyone is lookin at the scar his bolt had left on her face, small and cauterized but there nonetheless.

"Accidents," Audrey smoothly replies and the harshness to her tone makes Daryl shift his gaze from Walsh to her, wonderin as to why the hell _she _sounds pissed now. She's the 'victim' in all this. Daryl's the one that should be angry, **is **angry, but the kid keeps goin and her words get sharper and sharper until the last one is hurtled out like a razor fine dagger. "Honest to god accidents and nothing more. Hunting is a dangerous job Shane. Not that any of you would know."

Walsh gapes at her and Daryl sees the rest of em wear similar expressions but Audrey doesn't spare them any mercy or apology and instead just bluntly states that she's goin huntin with Daryl and that they'll be back in a few days, thank you fuckin kindly. Daryl is completely lost by this point cuz she isn't supposed to be doin **this**. She's supposed to just say sorry and walk away from Daryl and not look back and agree with all the shit the rest of them say about the bastards that bear the name Dixon. But she doesn't. And when Walsh refuses to let her go, like he honestly has a goddamn say, insultin Daryl along the way, Daryl sees an Audrey that he's only seen glimpses of, in the sneer she wore when she told off Merle, in the scowl she wore when she argued with Daryl, in the snarl she grinned when she beat Shane at their spar, wild and unrefined and unrepentant.

"Shane," she growls out and Daryl has never heard so much venom in her voice and all he can do is stare at her back in shock as she pushes herself into Walsh's face. "My last name is not fucking Walsh. I am _not _your daughter. _You _are **not **my father. So do not presume to tell me what to do like you know fucking better. I understand that you've somehow become the leader of our ragtag group and are trying to make some executive decisions but I am an **adult** and I can make my own decisions. And, right now, I've decided to go out and hunt with Daryl so no one _starves. _Understand?"

Not knowin the kid in front of him, used to docile _Saint fuckin Audrey, _Walsh pulls the first thing he can think of out of his ass. "You're only seventeen; in the state of Georgia ya gotta be eighteen to be considered an adult," he recites. "You don't have a say and, seeing as I'm a public official, I _say _that you aren't going. End of discussion."

Ironically, out of everythin that's been said, it's those words that smack Daryl in the face, make the breath rush out of him, cuz it makes him realize somethin.

The kid is really…just a fuckin kid. She ain't even an adult yet; goddamn jailbait like Merle had said not that Daryl had been thinkin of her _like _that. It's not like he didn't know her age, he did; she had told him herself days ago, just in passin conversation. But it still cold cocks him cuz she's only **seventeen **for Christ sakes and Daryl seems to always think of her as an adult, despite the fact that he refers to her as kid, cuz, out of every other dickhead in camp, she's the only one that can actually, on some practical level, take care of herself.

Audrey obviously thinks along the same lines cuz she's laughin in Walsh's face. "If you haven't noticed, the world has freaking _ended. _Sorry to burst your bubble but you aren't a "public official" because there is no _public _anymore. It's just us: less than two-dozen people surviving day to day here. You can't threaten to write me a ticket and, unless you're going to handcuff me to the RV of shoot me in the leg, you _can't _keep me here."

Walsh seems to take her words at face value cuz he grabs for her when she tries to move away and the sudden, violent urge that Daryl has to punch him in the face, get him to let Audrey **go, **surprises him. The two of them begin to argue but Daryl isn't listenin. He's thinkin bout the fact that…the kid is almost **defendin **him, fightin to go out with him, like it means so much to her that she's willin to piss a few people off. It makes no sense why she would do that, unless she's tryin to prove a point but what point can that be? It can't just be some stupid teenage shit of _you aren't the boss of me. _It's somethin more, somethin deeper and Daryl suddenly recalls how Walsh called him a 'backwater hillbilly' and how **that **is when Audrey got in his face, started to fight, like _**that **_had upset her, like…she cared about what the rest of them said about Daryl.

But then…that would mean…her point would be…that would mean by goin huntin with Daryl she would be tryin to prove, tryin to show the rest of them that the hunter was a good person, a trustworthy person, a person she considered…a _friend. _

The thought jars him cuz that's…that's not what he wants. He ain't her friend. He's just a fuckin business partner and...**fuck it**. He did this alone before and he can do it alone again. This shit…this fuckin stupid kid was too much-

"I'm not a _kid," _he hears her snarl. "And that's bullshit. You just don't want me to go cuz-"

And Daryl can't take it anymore, her voice, her defense of him, and he suddenly explodes.

"_**Jesus Fucking Christ!"**_

Everyone falls silent at his outburst but he doesn't give a shit how they are lookin at him or how they think of him, or **what** they think of him, and he shoves past Walsh, sneerin his defiance in his face. He's made it five feet before the kid's callin out to him, beggin and pleadin again, and he tries to ignore her but she just won't be ignored and he knows she'll just follow him if he says nothin so he makes damn **sure **she won't _want_ to follow him.

Grittin his teeth, Daryl casts the coldest look he can muster over his shoulder, puttin in it all the hate he had for these motherfuckers, all his anger and spiteful feelings. He looks right in those god-awful puke green eyes of hers and severs their partnership as easily as he can cuz hell he doesn't need this. "Ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble," he snarls and he says the words like they disgust him, like **she **disgusts him and he turns away, ignorin the shattered look in her eyes as she hears him.

She doesn't call out to him again and he doesn't look back as he stalks away. He doesn't have a specific destination, just fuckin away from **there, **but he finds himself in front of his tent before long and, lucky him, Merle is suddenly there.

His older brother doesn't look drunk or high any more and his eyes are crystal clear, his teeth gleamin razor sharp as he smiles at Daryl. "Well now," he drawls and there's such _glee _in his voice that Daryl automatically tenses and feels like shit is about to hit the fan cuz Merle only ever sounds this happy right before he starts a fight. "Sounds like we got us a little powwow down there. What? Did ya not tie the gag tight enough round the cooze's mouth?" He laughs, a mean and ugly noise, and Daryl feels rage spiral through him, his fingers curlin into shakin fists at his side.

"Shut the fuck up Merle," he grinds out but the older man doesn't seem phased by the anger in his brother's voice. In fact, it seems to amuse him cuz his smile only widens, holdin his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Aw don' be like that baby brother. I told ya the bitch was no good."

Daryl's chest is startin to heave and Merle takes in the shakin shoulders and flutterin muscles in his brother's jaw and his grin bleeds into a slow, shit eatin smirk. "Or maybe _**ya **_were the one who was no good," he taunts and red starts to filter into Daryl's vision. "Did she turn ya down lil bro cuz yer a good for nothin piece of…"

Merle never gets to finish his sentence.

"_**FUCK YOU!" **_Daryl screams and he's lashin out without thinking, his fist suddenly flyin through the air and into his brother's cheek with a jarrin force, the crack that follows signifyin that _somethin _had been broken upon impact. Daryl doesn't know if it's Merle's cheek or his own hand but he doesn't care as he spits on his brother's prone body, only seein **red red red **as he stands there. Merle looks shocked, even behind the blood, and Daryl feels so much _hate _in him at that moment he only has one thought and that was **leave. **

But when he whirls to go, _she's _fuckin there again, standin yards away, skin flushed pink and thin frame gaspin as her mouth forms a perfect 'o' of surprise. Daryl meets green eyes for just a fraction of a second but he can't take any more than that, the hurt in their emerald depths pokin holes through his fury and he doesn't want that. He wants the rage, the anger, the wrath; wants to ride the tidal wave of those feelins all the way out of camp and to the ends of the world.

So he pretends like he doesn't see her and he pretends like he doesn't know her, lettin his gaze slide away like water and flowin right into the trees behind him. He doesn't know where he's goin, doesn't have the slightest clue, but as long as it is _away _from here, it's fine with him.

As long as it is away from Walsh and the judgment in his eyes and those brats and the fear in each freckle on their faces; as long as it is away from Merle and his goddamn disgustin **thoughts; **as long as it is _far away _from that **stupid **kid and her hideous green eyes and thin shoulders and her words that make no sense to Daryl but that he does not want to make sense **of…**he doesn't care if he ends up in the middle of the ocean, lost and fuckin drownin.

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><p>It isn't until much later, almost two days later, until he's worn out all his anger, until he's bone tired of runnin to nowhere, until the moon is the only witness in the world, that Daryl allows himself to admit that… he doesn't know what a friend is, doesn't know what the fuck it entails exactly, but that he feels the kid…feels that <em>Audrey <em>had come the closest anyone ever had before he fucked it up.

But maybe it was for the best. Cuz she's _Saint fuckin Audrey _and garbage like him ain't allowed in heaven.

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><p><strong>(1)<strong> **Quote by Shakespeare.**

**Allllll right. Well there ya go :/ For some reason it is REALLY hard for me to get in Daryl's head so I hope this is satisfactory . I was iffy on the last bit but...meh :P We'll see how you guys like it. **

**PLEASE remember to review! :) You don't know how happy they make me and to ALL my faithful reviewers, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart :) I love you guys and it's your comments that keep this story alive ^^**

**Next chap we are back to Audrey's POV and the trip into Atlanta that brings Officer Rick Grimes into the picture ;) Whoot!**

**PS: These next two weeks are gonna be veritable HELL for me T.T I have AP Exams and graduation so if it takes me a bit longer to update I apologize x( Please bear with me and don't give up on Audrey's and Daryl's story yet! :D**

**Thanks again for reading!**

**~Shadows**


	15. I've Got Some Friends on the Corner

**I first want to apologize for the MONTH wait on this! D: I didnt mean to have such a lapse in updates but it's been a busy as HELL last few weeks. I had AP exams and then graduation and then a _severe _case of writers block on this chapter and i dont know why. T.T But here it, finalllly, is. :)**

**It's a bit fillerish but it gives a little more past on Audrey and it's leading into episode one where the group meets Rick :) Which i'm already working on so hopefully not so long between updates :I**

**Hope you enjoy and remember to review! :D We hit 100 reviews which i want to thank you guys from the bottom of my heart! D: I love you guys and thanks for making Audrey's story so liked and loved :)**

**Enjoy :)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 15: I've Got Some Friends on the Corner<strong>

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><p>"Audrey?"<p>

Silence. Scrape. Scrape. Then—

"Dree could you…can you please come down? We just want to talk."

I bite my lip, hard, and don't answer, focusing on the whetstone between by fingers and the tanto I have propped against my upturned knee, honing it into razor sharpness. The edges of my fingertips ache and sting, full of invisible slices and cuts, victims of an already keen blade but I don't stop. I don't _want_ to stop.

Beneath me, I hear Amy sigh and mutter something unintelligible to Glenn who whispers frantically back. They've been going at this for well over an hour now. I don't know why they keep trying. It's a _little _obvious that I don't feel up to talking right now. I mean I did climb this fucking tree, almost to the near damn top. And that was after I had tried to escape to my tent…and then the quarry…and then just basically _anywhere _to be alone. But **no. **Glenn and Amy here just had to be fucking nosy and placating, trying to calm me down while simultaneously trying to weasel out answers.

Yeah well, I am in no goddamn mood for games. Why can't they just go do something productive and useful and leave me be like everyone else has?

Oh. Because they're my "_friends." _Right.

Sighing, I let my head fall forward, butting against the hilt of the blade on my knee as I close my eyes. I'm fucking _**tired.**_ Before, right after **it **happened and after the shock had worn off, I had felt angry, livid beyond belief. I had wanted to rage and spit and break things. Hell, I kind of did just that too. Glenn and Amy had been babbling at my side, rapid-fire questions and concerns but as I kept staring at the place where Daryl had disappeared, where he was already going…going…gone, slipping into the woods that he knew like the back of his hand and that I still couldn't walk a straight line in…well I just couldn't take it any more. I could still feel the blood dripping down my wrist from Shane's jagged nails and iron grip and Daryl's words had been throbbing in my head like a second, discordant, heartbeat.

"_Ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble."_

"_Ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble."_

"_Ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble."_

Glenn had touched me then, just a brush against my shoulder, but it was enough to ignite the power keg of rage in me and I had whirled on him with a fierceness that distantly startled even me. I had ignored his wide brown eyes, the pupils blown wide, the drawn cast of his face. I had shoved away all the memories of him laughing and smiling at me, the recalls of camaraderie and friendship and pushed words off my tongue like they are coated in glass. I had snarled for him not to fucking _touch me. _AndGlenn had blinked at the venom in my voice, the steel, unused to this version of me, thrown for a loop by my vehemence and anger, but the boy was smart, wouldn't be alive if he wasn't, and had enough common sense to release my elbow slowly. I had glowered at the young man, hot enough that he flinched and half raised his hands as if to ward me off and, somewhere under my tumultuous emotions, I had felt a flare of sobering guilt at the spark of fear in Glenn's eyes, in the quiver of Amy's lower lip, the fact that the only friends I have left were afraid of me but ignored it as I shoved past them, throwing a caustic warning to _**leave me alone **_over my shoulder.

I hadn't known where I was going, just blindly letting the pulse of _awayawayaway _under my skin lead me, but I hadn't made it halfway to my tent before I became aware that someone was following me. I could hear their footsteps, panting breaths. The thought had pissed me off and I veered to the side suddenly, hoping to lose my pursuer in the woods. But whoever they were persisted, crashing loudly after me as I broke into a sprint down the quarry road. When I had gone halfway and still hadn't lost them, in a brief flash of fear I had thought **Merle **because, really, he should have been following me. I knew he saw me running after his…brother. He must know I didn't exactly listen to his "advice." And the older Dixon had seemed dead serious about his threat, I was surprised he hadn't slit me ear to ear then, just to be rid of me. But when I turned to confront what I thought was going to be 6'4, 230 lbs easy of solid and thick, drugged addicted son of a bitch…I had instead found Glenn and Amy, twenty yards away, panting and dirty from running after me but no less determined. The sight had surprised me but didn't mollify my anger. In fact, it had made it worse because what the fuck had I said about leaving me the fuck alone?

Amy had gasped out something, a plea to just talk, but I ignored her, turning back around and making it look like I was going to head to the quarry anyway, plan half assed formulated in my head. The two of them stuttered after me but, at the last second, I spun around and hauled ass back up the hill, blasting past them, feeling phantoms tugs as they grasped me. It made my calves hurt like a bitch and my lungs felt like they had been set on fire but I had enough stamina and speed to outpace Glenn and Amy by at least 20 seconds. Not too long but long enough for me to throw myself at a tree on the outskirts of camp, scrabbling up the trunk until I was perched on the highest branch that could hold my weight, panting and sweating. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had been enraged that I was forced to climb a damn tree just to get some peace and quiet, that people couldn't just _**listen to what I said **_but that particular irritation faded as I realized I had achieved what I wanted.

_Being alone. _

Ok so yeah. Amy and Glenn found me within ten fucking minutes, Dale having pointed me out when the younger two were asking around. The bastard. But, as it turned out, Amy was afraid of heights and Glenn, though he tried, just couldn't seem to reach me, couldn't find the footholds I somehow had to get higher than ten feet off the ground while I was precariously sitting about thirty to forty feet in the air. Maybe I should have been scared, one wrong move and I would have been tumbling to my death, but I had spent the better half of a month sleeping in various trees to stay alive so my previous apprehension with heights was kind of moot point by now. Things kind of took on a different perspective when dead people were shambling around trying to eat you.

And so here I am. Locked in my self-made tower of bark and leaves with my previous anger draining out of me like water through a sieve, leaving me worn out and tired, like an empty, used up, husk. I didn't use to be like this. I remember that when I was younger, 9 or 10 or so, I could go for days and days, ticked off and ready to blow even as Mom did her best to pacify me, kind words and even kinder actions. I was a little shit of a kid, had an ocean deep pit of rage and insolence and anything of that ilk in me but...seems like Mom and Sensei managed to poke a hole in that pit over the years, turning it into a sieve with a rapid emptying rate because I'm going from enraged, to pissed, to angry, to irritated to just fucking done.

My head is throbbing, flashes of red behind my closed eyelids. The pain causes me to groan and roll my forehead against my knees, skin slick with sweat that the slowly setting sun had managed to wring out of me. It's getting close to dinnertime, close to sundown, but I'm really not inclined to move. In fact, I'm not feeling particularly inclined to do much of anything but breathe at this time. I should probably sharpen my katana, my tanto is well past done, but I just don't feel the motivation to lean forward and pull the sheath off, even if it's digging into the length of my spine, the already tense muscles of my shoulders. I'm fucking lazy. Sue me.

"Audrey? Come on. Please?"

Distantly, I hear the scrape of shoes on bark, a groan of protest as weight is applied to an unsteady branch. Seems like Glenn is giving climbing another go. Got to give the dude props for persistence.

A thought occurs to me suddenly, sharp and painful, and it causes a bitter smile to pull at my chapped lips, stretch against the curve of my knee.

I don't know why Glenn and Amy keep trying. I ain't worth the goddamn trouble after all.

Even hours later, the words still twist harshly in my chest, leaving me sore and bruised, like I've just been punched in the solar plexus.

Opening my eyes, I'm confronted with the blurry and unfocused sight of my dirt-streaked knee, the smudges of green leaves beyond that. Salt stings at my eyes but from sweat, slick beads sliding down my forehead, across my eyebrows and down my cheeks. There are no tears. I haven't cried and I don't think I'm going to at this point. There's…well _no point._ Though, in the beginning, I nearly did, out of pure frustration and anger if nothing else.

God. Could that whole situation have been any more fucked up? All I had wanted was to go out and help Daryl bring in some food. Keep people fed. Keep that hollowed, starving look out of Sophia's eyes, Carl's thinning cheeks, the pointed knobs of Louis' shoulders and Eliza's elbows. And what did I get in return? A whole lot of fucking _**bullshit. **_The memory, one that I've been trying to fight back for over an hour now, comes surging forward, tired of being ignored, and my head to falls back with a groan, smacking solidly with the tree trunk behind me, my thoughts swimming with images and words.

It's all bits and pieces, segments, tidbits, a kaleidoscope of feelings.

Daryl. Half-hearted smirks and bright blue eyes. _"Fine. But ya better keep up. I ain't slowin down for ya."_

Carl. Pale face like the moon, the vaulted arch of his gaping mouth. "_Mom! Shane!"_

Shane. Narrowed eyes and an accusation I could almost taste_. "Carl said Dixon grabbed you and that the two of you were leaving."_

Shane. Arrogant and self-entitled; presumptuous and authoritative; grinding bones and blood on my wrist. _"I said __no. You aren't going out to the middle of nowhere with nothing but some backwoods hillbilly as your backup." _

Daryl. Fed up. Snarls and scowls and hocked up spit. "_Jesus Fucking Christ!"_

Daryl. The hunter; impatient; white gritted teeth and a shouldered crossbow. _"All of ya'll can argue all ya damn want. Yer wastin my fuckin time."_

**Daryl. **Spiteful. _Hateful. _A stranger with daggers for eyes and acid on his lips. "_Ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble."_

The whole thing makes my head feel like its thirty pounds, makes me just want to close my eyes and go to sleep and not wake up for _years. _I'm just so fucking _exhausted _by now. I'm not even angry anymore, not really. Some of it's still there but it's dying, fading away, an ember in the ashes of a previous inferno. I just don't have the energy for it.

Fuck. And you know what's the real kicker? At this point…I'm not even sure whom I was so angry with in the first place. My brain automatically wants to point to Shane, especially when I look down and see the scratches in my wrist. They're pretty deep, carved furrows with drying blood scabbed over them, the still intact skin a rapidly darkening purple. The sight alone makes that ember in me give a dull flare again but not much more. I still think Shane was wrong, _**is **_wrong, about everything he said. I still don't think he had the right to boss me around like some child, still don't think that he had _any _right to lay a hand on me, even if it was "for my own good", and I sure as hell don't think he was right in accusing Daryl like that. But other than feeling that he was wrong, and having his general sense of frustration and failure, I don't feel much towards the former cop. It might be shock. I might wake up tomorrow and be rearing to go, out for blood, wanting to kick Shane's ass but right now…I'm a little more level headed, if not a bit distant and detached. I know why Shane did what he did; I can see his point of view. I just don't care to find him and explain my own perspective, smooth things over between us. Maybe's he's feeling guilty about the whole thing right now; maybe he's not. Either way, I'm done with him today; I'm done with everyone. Done with his and Lori's self-righteous advice; done with Carl and Sophia and their childish misunderstandings; done with Glenn and Amy and the fact that they just wouldn't understand…whatever everyone was so riled up about, because I still don't see the big deal in hunting with Daryl if it had kept them all fed but hey, I'm done with wondering why too.

But most of all…I'm done with Daryl. The thought makes my stomach twist in knots but I have no other option. That man is nothing but an ulcer and an aneurysm wrapped in one big clusterfuck of frustration. All I keep doing is trying to help him but it's like I'm stuck in this fucked up dance with him and I don't know the steps. One-inch forward, five miles back. Every time I think I'm gaining some ground with him, he slams a door in my face or yanks the rug out from under me. I've tried…I've tried because at first I felt indebted to him and then I felt…well I guess I should pick my friends better huh? Or better yet, no friends at all. Make all this apocalypse shit easier right? Don't know why I keep shooting myself in the foot like this but oh well. What's done is done. I'm beat up and tired and hungry but I'm sure as hell not sticking around for dinner. All I'm going to do tonight is go back to my tent and sleep as long as I fucking want. If we all starve to death before I wake up well…life's a bitch. I've learned to get over it.

Heaving out a sigh, I shift to put my tanto away and tuck the whetstone into my pocket. My body aches, is sore in a thousand different places from being curled up in this tree but I do my best to ignore the twinges of discomfort as I swing my leg over the medium sized branch I've been straddling for the past hour. Looking down is a dizzying drop, forty feet of branches and leaves and free space until you slam into the hard packed earth below. The sight gives me a small sense of vertigo, the world tilting slightly off axis, but I shove it away as I _carefully _slip down to the branch below me, digging jagged nails into harsh bark. The branches sway precariously as I make my painstaking way down to the ground below, my shoes skid more than once, losing purchase, but I just bite my lip and bear through it. It's not like I'm going to call for help anyway. I'm got up here and I'm going to get down on my own. Besides who was going to help me? Glenn and Amy are my best chances and they've already proved they couldn't scale this feat.

Oh shit. The thought of the duo distracts me for an instant and I lose my balance, glancing off a thick set tree limb and slamming harshly into the trunk, gasping. Bark scrapes across my cheek, my collarbone, driving the breath from my lungs but I'm, by some grace, still clinging to the tree, twenty feet up now. I grit my teeth as my heart races and bump my forehead sharply in scolding. Fucking idiot. If I have a death wish, there are much easier and less painful ways to go than falling on my head. Jesus.

But Glenn and Amy. Damn it. I didn't even think about them before I began my descent. I should have stayed up longer; I still don't want to talk. However, I had been too caught up in my own head and now I'm sure they've heard me, grunting and cursing as I climbed down. There's no way they hadn't. And Glenn can actually reach the height I'm at now so there's no point in stopping and I don't have the will, or the coordination, to climb back up. Son of a bitch. An hour of running and almost killing myself all for nothing because I still have to talk to them. Excellent. This day has been just wonderful.

Still berating myself, I have no choice but to finish my journey. It takes a while, a lot longer than it did to climb up, but maybe that's because I'm dragging it out as long as possible. There's only so long I can drag ass though and eventually, I'm sitting on the last branch, five feet in the air, swinging my legs. Well, here I go. Into the fucking lion's den. Let's just get this over with. Taking a deep breath, I slip off without any hesitation and fall to the ground, absorbing the impact with my knees. It still hurts, my back protests and my ankle rolls the slightest bit to the left, but I'm left relatively unscathed. As I straighten, I realize my eyes are closed and I tense, waiting for the barrage of questions and comments and just the general din of noise that's been chasing me all afternoon.

I don't expect the silence.

Well, it's not a complete silence. There's still the perpetual hum of the cicadas, the rustle of leaves in the stale wind, a barely tangible scent of decay in the air blown in from the city, and the undercurrent murmur of people walking through camp, a calm mutter, like a bubbling brook. But there are no questions, no rapid-fire inquiries, no concerns or comments. In fact, there is no Glenn and Amy.

I'm blinking stupidly at the spot where I last saw the two, high up above looking down with a bird's eye view. But they're gone, my immediate area clear of anything and everything that's not dirt, rocks, or trees. I look around, turning right, left, behind me, waiting for some kind of ambush, but there's no one around. I begin to wonder why, this new ingrained, instinctual fear of people just vanishing from one moment to the next, but after a split second, I banish the thought entirely. Glenn and Amy probably just gave up. They had been trying fruitlessly for an hour trying to get me to come down. It was about damn time.

Scrubbing a hand tiredly against my scalp, I glance the general direction of camp. I'm standing on the very outskirts, separated by a handful of yards and some shrubbery. Through the leaves I can see flashes of people, an arm, a turned back, and they all seem to be walking towards the RV, away from me but, of course, towards my tent. Rubbing tiredly at my eyes, I glance off into the distance. It'll be a chore, I'll be dirtier and aching even more by the time I'm done but I'll just have to go around, take the long way along the edges of camp to get back to my tent. Normally, I'd just cut through camp, get there in a under a minute but…I'd rather sleep in this fucking tree than wade through all those people, my neighbors, my…friends.

God, I'm just so _tired. _

"To hell with this," I mutter. Casting, one last wearied glance at the slivers of camp that I can see, I turn away and start to trudge towards my tent. Please, let Abby be out. Just please. My roommate is nice and all but today…just please.

I keep my eyes trained on the ground as I walk. I'm trying to make as little noise as possible, careful steps on soft dirt, minding my feet, the position of my arms, trying to blend in as much as I can with the woods I'm navigating through. Honestly, I'm probably doing a crap job. I mean, I'm wearing jean shorts and a dark navy top, not to mention I'm pretty fucking pale. And that's just looks. I'm light on my feet in sparring, when I fight, but put me in nature and I'm a bull in a china shop.

Or a trampling elephant as Daryl so kindly put it one time.

I wince at the memory. No. Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

I've already circled half of camp, almost to my destination but not just quite. And of course, because I'm me and I'd expect this, I have to cross right behind the RV to slip towards my tent, right behind where everyone has apparently congregated, if the crowd of bodies and din of voices I can now see and hear are any indication. I give half a thought to wonder if they are talking about me. Probably. Well, doesn't this feel like first day all over again. Whatever. Tent. Bed. Sleep. Forever. That's all I'm worried about right now. Everything else can take a back seat.

Biting my lip, I pay extra special attention to my feet, where my next step is landing, how much noise I will make. The lengthening shadows of sunset are helping me be stealthier, blend in better than the stark relief of midday but there's only so much I can be helped and it's not very much. Case in point, right as I reach the very edge of the Winnebago, I step right on top of a particularly large branch, the resulting _snap _making me flinch and throw myself against the vehicles warm siding. In my defense, the branch had been covered by a tuft of ankle high grass. Still, I'm holding my breath in the next few seconds, wondering if anyone heard me. Doesn't seem like it since the conversation goes on uninterrupted. I randomly think that for the apocalypse, these people don't have very good survivalist skills.

A sad thought strikes me of when did I start thinking of Glenn and Amy and Dale and Jacqui and Morales and everyone else whom I have grown close to in the past weeks as "these people." Guilt unfurls in my chest but I do my best to strangle it before its vines can drag me down. Sleep. I just need sleep.

Still plastered against the RV, I inch along until I reach the opposite side. There's a good five feet of empty space from the edge to the next batch of shrubs and coverage that I have to cross if I'm going to reach my tent. Of course, this empty patch is in direct line of sight from the front of the RV, where everyone is gathered. Wouldn't be fun if it weren't. Goddamn it. Taking a deep breath, I slip to the very edge and slowly, oh so slowly and carefully, peek around the corner of the RV to see exactly where everyone is standing and if there's a snowball's chance in hell for me to slip past with everyone turned away.

And, of course there isn't. The entire camp is standing not ten feet from me, huddled in a wide, loose, circle. T-Dog is the closest to me, his broad back turned as he stares across the circle, listening to who's talking. I follow what I assume is his line of sight and…Shane. The older man is talking animatedly to the group, words loud and echoing as his hands make articulate gestures. I don't know what he's saying; I don't particularly care. All I care about is the fact that is, the way he's standing, there's no _way _he is going to miss me if I try to bridge the distance from Winnebago to foliage and even if he, by some fucked up miracle, misses me, there's five other people that are bound to see me and no doubt call me out.

I whine under my breath, a whisper of a sound, and press my forehead harshly against the warm metal I'm pressed against. This just isn't _fair. _Granted, the world isn't but…come the fuck on. The siding isn't scalding, not anymore, but it's enough to make the position uncomfortable and I quickly pry my face away. Sighing, I shift so my back lies flat against the side of the RV and I slowly slide down to the ground, knees buckling and strength waning. I let my legs flop out in front of me, not wanting to curl up after the hour in the tree, and crane my neck back as I close my eyes. My head is still throbbing and my stomach is growling and fuck if I'm not getting more and more exhausted with each breath but there's not much I can do about it until the…"meeting" I guess is what to call it, is done. I only hope Shane wraps it up before dark because navigating through the woods in the day is difficult but at night? Damn near fucking impossible. At least for me. I'm pretty sure Daryl could do it no prob—

The hollow ache in my chest makes me halt the thought mid sentence. No. Stop. I'm not going to think about him. I'm not going to think about the hunter or what he said to me. I'm not going to think about how I was so sure we were working up to a nice camaraderie before everything went to shit. I'm not going to think about the fact that when he gets back from his hunt, a part of me still wants to keep trying, forgive and forget if only to just see that infuriating smirk and…son of a bitch. This not thinking about Daryl isn't going so well. I groan and throw my head back, listening in detachment to the low, hollow thud the motion produced.

Why? I can't help but wonder this now, now that I'm squatting in the dirt, hiding in the shadows, doing my best to be invisible to the people that are really all I have left in the world. Why do I keep trying with Daryl? I have Glenn and Amy as friends or I did. No…I think I still do. If they didn't care they wouldn't have chased me like they did. Again, there's that guilty bloom but I shove it away. So, I still have Glenn and Amy. And I'm sure if I swallow my pride and apologize, everyone else will eventually forgive me. Not that I have anything to apologize _for _since I still don't see what I did wrong but…anyway. If I think about it, Daryl, the Dixons in general, have really been the source of my problems since I came into camp. Daryl's the reason I've had to lie to my friends, the reason I have all these new, nifty little scars. And Merle's the reason I have to look over my shoulder every so often, the reason I have more fears than just walkers. Any sane person would have walk, more like _ran, _away from the two brothers weeks ago, done their best to stay as far fucking away as possible.

But I hadn't. _**Why?**_

I wish I could just say it was just due to the fact that Daryl brought me here, saved my life. That I was just trying to work off that debt and survive. But that doesn't account for everything else: for my numerous attempts at friendship, for my forgiveness of Daryl's less than stellar attitude, for me looking forward to our hunts and the small reprieves that follow, me reading to Daryl and the hunter shooting down everything with a precision and dryness that is just so _him. _An indebted person doesn't do that. I can't use that excuse. So what then? What's so different? What keeps me trying?

Furrowing my brow, I clench my eyes shut and think back to every encounter I've had with the younger Dixon, paying special attention to the most recent memories. Slowly, I begin to pick them apart. More often than not, Daryl annoys the crap out of me. Or at least he did in the beginning. He's perpetually growling and snapping, a scowl or glare affixed on his face. When I first met him, I thought he was just a dick. But…as time wore on…I realized that that's just how Daryl socializes. And after meeting Merle, I'm not surprised. Once I discovered that, I began to take everything Daryl did or said with a grain of salt. It made things a little bit more tolerable. And then, I guess once he decided that I wasn't just some other asshole that was going to judge and demand things from him…he was different. Not really changed. He still growls, snaps and glowers. But…sitting with him wasn't all that horrible. In fact, it could be rather nice. The memory of him laughing, a deep throated, short lived chuckled reverberates through my skull. It could be really nice.

I try to remember the last time I felt something like that. Something easy and comfortable. My times with Amy and Glenn don't count, not really, because I have different feelings when I am with them. Amusement sometimes, a bright and sharp happiness when they make a joke or just smile at me. But it's different when I am with them than when I am with Daryl. Amy and Glenn…well they like to talk. Fill the silence. It's not necessarily a bad thing. After a month of silence, with the flames of Dalton at my back, it's a welcome thing. But there are times where I don't want to talk, when I'm tired of all the noise and just want a second of stillness and quiet. I guess that's why I've ended up down by the quarry so much, sitting on that boulder, and I guess that's why I also like Daryl's company. He doesn't need to talk. Shit, I'm almost certain he's allergic to it. At times, it grates on my nerves, just like Amy and Glenn's perpetual talking, but together, all my three friends, because damn it, no matter how much he or I try to deny it that's what Daryl is, they balance each other out, perfectly serendipitous.

Just like Kaleigh, Mathias, and Annie Marie.

Their names, so sudden and unexpected after so long of trying to repress them, bring a knot to the base of my throat and I gasp with the feel of it. With all that's happened in the past few days, especially today, it shouldn't be surprising and yet I still try my hardest, in vain, to stop the images as they come unbidden, blurring my vision with molten and unexpected tears.

They're mostly just snatches of memory, incoherent, bits and pieces of a broken jigsaw puzzle.

Kaleigh's pin straight golden hair, fluttering in the wind as we walk our way to school. Her bell like laughter a sharp, inappropriate peal in the middle of the library.

Mathias' jet black hair pinned back with sparkling butterfly barrettes, his even brighter smile as he strutted through the hallways with pride.

And Annie Marie, sweet Annie Marie. Her corkscrew auburn hair, all sleek and smooth for prom. Her not so covert nudges to my ribs, accompanied by her innocent version of a smirk, when Jason Spencers, the most popular and sought after boy in our school, waltzed into the room.

My friends, my three best friends. The people I've known since I came to live with Mom. The people who did not pity me for who I was, who I had been, but accepted me as I came. The people that I left behind in Dalton.

I've tried not to think about them in the past weeks. At first, it had been a means of survival. I couldn't think about them because I had to keep going. I had to make it to Atlanta and wallowing in sorrow would only end up in me being careless and then me being dead. So I had shoved the mere memory of my friends into the dark recesses of my mind, in an effort to survive. And then, when Daryl found me, and brought me back here, camp life engulfed me. Demanded my every attention. There were chores to do and things to clean, to cook, to fix. And there were the people, always the people, the survivors just like me. Carl and Sophia, looking for lessons, English and sword alike. Amy and Glenn, new friends, different friends, who kept on talking so their own memories did not consume them. Lori and Carol. Shane and Dale. Jim and Jacqui and Abby and Lina and so many other faces and voices and bodies just surrounding me at every second of the day.

This is the first time that I've allowed more than just a fleeting thought of a memory to remind me of all that I have lost. My friends. My family. Just like Mom and Irina and Sensei. All the people closest to me. Gone.

And suddenly, with the recollections of all my loved ones, almost like an afterthought, comes an epiphany, like they are trying to point something out to me. It's like a bolt of lightning.

It's **them.** They're the reason I'm being stubborn and stupid. Why I won't concede to Merle, to Shane, to fucking anyone and just let Daryl skate off my back, wash off my hands. It's because I've lost so many people, enough friends, already. Maybe it's some kind of desperation in me, a yearning for a human connection when all my previous ones have been severed. Maybe it's the way Daryl reminds me of something in my past, recalls memories and words that I thought I had forgotten long ago. Maybe it's a combination of those things. I can't say for sure but it's something along those lines. Either way, selfishly, for my own personal reasons that I refuse to begin to untangle, I want Daryl as a friend.

"_Would you approve?" _I ask the memories of my friends. "_Would you approve of my choice? My foolishness? Of Daryl himself?"_

In the back of my mind, I'd like to say they would. I'd like to think that Mathias would have run Daryl over with a critical eye, clucked his tongue at the whole redneck getup, but given me a secretive wink of acceptance nonetheless. I'd like to think that Annie Marie would have smiled, bright and bubbly, and giggled into my ear. Above anything else, I'd love to believe Kaleigh would have cocked her eyebrow, along with her hip in that devil may care pose she was so good at, and say something witty and sarcastic but follow up with an invitation of friendship to Daryl, just because she knew I wanted it. But I don't know if any of that would happen. I will never know.

Because I hadn't seen Mathias since two weeks before Dalton fell, when the schools began to close, when the scared whispers became more than just whispers, when parents started to keep their kids at home at all times. Annie Marie's family had left a week prior to that, back to her mother's family farm, somewhere in the hills of Georgia. I can still remember the smell of her hair as she hugged me goodbye, sunshine and daisies, the tears in her gray eyes when she said she'd see me when this all blew over. I can still remember her small figure, looking out the back of her father's pickup, dainty hand pressed against the back window as I waved goodbye.

And Kaleigh…

Kaleigh…

Before I can finish a thought, I hear my name, as if at a distance, and slam back into reality. Blinking away my unshed tears, I look up sharply, turning my head from side to side, thinking someone must have found me and called out. But there's no one around. I'm still alone. Confused, I purse my lips and think that perhaps I'm hearing things, ghosts calling my name, but then I hear it again, loud and clear, and I realize it's Amy, talking just on the other side of the RV.

"I said what about Audrey?" I hear her repeat and I blink stupidly, finally starting to listen to the conversation taking place just a few feet away.

Silence answers her question. It's two beats later, when it's obvious no one is going to respond, that she continues.

"She isn't going to be happy about being left out of this. And she might have some input." I don't know what _this _is but Amy sounds equal parts pleading and determined. I can just imagine the squared line of her usually soft jaw, the resolved light in her blue eyes when she really wants something.

Someone snorts and it's a derisive noise, scornful and unamused. "Yeah well Audrey's not very happy about much right about now," Shane says and my teeth grind together at the sudden flare of irritation the man's voice brings up. "And there's nothing left to input. The group's been set. They leave in the morning."

Group…oh. The city, supply run. I suddenly remember Shane pulling something out of his ass about a group before. I had forgotten in the wake of…everything else. But _that's _what this meeting was about. Everyone was coordinating, organizing. I try to think back and remember if Amy and Glenn had called something up to me about this meeting but it's all just muffled noise and undistinguishable syllables. I hadn't been listening before and I can't remember anything now. A part of me, the part that always wants to help and be all goody fucking two shoes, feels a pang of hurt of being left out of this collective group gathering. But the rest of me, fed the fuck up and tired and selfishly just wanting to go to bed, can't seem to give a fuck. I tried to do my part in getting supplies earlier. I was…out voted. So, this doesn't concern me, not one fucking bit. I close my eyes and cross my arms over my chest, jaw working in irritation. I hope this is almost over because I am _this _close to just getting up, stealth be damned, and walking straight through camp and into my tent. I might even smile at Shane on my way there, just for the fuck of it.

For a few moments, people mutter and murmur to each other and I'm getting ready for Shane to like bang his proverbial gavel and adjourn everyone when Glenn suddenly speaks up, quiet but forceful.

"I want Audrey to go."

Everything grinds to a halt, people chocking on their sentences, and my eyes pop open again, bulging out of my skull as I gape at the forest in front of me. "What?" Shane, of course it's Shane, speaks up finally, word hoarse like he had to spit it out. Oh shit. Now, I have to see this.

There's a shuffling noise and, as quietly as I can, I scramble to the side of the RV and peek around the corner, on my hands and knees in the dirt. I can see Glenn in the gap between T-Dog and Jim's legs, shifting and squirming where he's standing, kicking at the ground. The sun is setting behind me so Glenn has to squint when he lifts his head and I see the flustered tint to his tanned skin, the way he's biting his lip in discomfort. "I…I mean if she wants t…if she says yes, I'd like her to go." Everyone, the people I can see anyway, is staring at the young man in shock and he quickly tries to explain himself and hell, I really want to hear this.

"Audrey's…well besides you, Shane, and…um…a few others, Audrey's the only one that knows how to _really _yield a weapon." I raise an eyebrow at his words because I'm sure by "a few others" he means the Dixons but apparently their name is taboo now. "You know how she is with that sword," Glenn continues. "And she's fast as hell. She'd…she's be an asset in the city."

When he finishes, he looks to Shane for the older man's response but I'm still gazing at Glenn and that guilt comes back full force now, pushing aside all my _I don't give a crap _attitude because, shit. Even after everything, Glenn's still, blatantly, my friend. Regret, for the way I acted towards him and Amy, is not to far behind and soon I'm feeling abjectly miserable. Damn this bleeding heart of mine.

I can't see Shane's expression from this angle but by the stony silence, I can guess it is not exactly approving. "You've already got five people going, including you. That's six going into the city. More people would be a mistake. Ya know how big groups do that close to…danger Glenn. Ya don't need Audrey," Shane says, tone neutral but with an underlying sharpness, and as one, everyone flinches at the thought of what that danger really is.

The former cop sounds logical and, any other time, completely right. But I can almost _taste _the bullshit in his words because fucking really? Not a few hours ago he was complaining that Daryl and I going into the woods alone was too _few _people. Now he's complaining me going to the city is too _many. _The excuses are different but the intent is the same: keep Audrey in camp. And because Glenn is smart, in no way dumb or slow, he sees through Shane just as quickly. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, in the way he purses his lip, and the way a muscle in his cheek jumps, like he wants to say something. But Shane was a cop, can read people like an expert poker player, and he can see how Glenn isn't done, that he has more to say. That's exactly why he claps his hands together, loud and dismissive, and says, "Alright. That's settled. All of ya'll on the trip tomorrow ya leave at dawn so meet here. Other than that, let's get dinner started."

Glenn opens his mouth, one last effort, but people are already moving, their "leader" having released them. Amy quickly sidles up to Glenn and spares him an apologetic glance but the younger man just shakes his head and shrugs with one shoulder. From this distance, I can see him mouth the words _I tried _to her.

I shouldn't say anything. I should just turn away and slip back into the brush like I planned to, now that everyone is drifting further away, towards the campfire to dinner. This is the opening I've been waiting for. My goal of sleep and rest and being _alone _is literally in sight, the top of my tent twenty yards away. I said I was done. I had offered my help and been shot down, by more than one person. I'd done my share. And yet, before I know it, I'm slipping out from behind the Winnebago, stepping out from the shadows and people glance half-heartedly at me before they do a double take and gape. It simultaneously gets too loud and way too quiet as I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself not to squirm, knowing how I must look, knowing what everyone must think. I ignore all of it.

I don't know if it's just some of my old rebelliousness, the shit that made me stand next to Daryl and stand up to Shane, or if it's sensei's mantra of not giving up that's resounding in my heard or just the fact that I'm realizing the danger Glenn's putting himself in, going _deep _into the city to keep us fed, and I can't stand the thought of letting him get hurt because I was being whiny and selfish, but either way I find myself standing only a few feet away from a shocked Amy and a surprised Glenn and all I can do is purse my lips and clear my throat and feel awkward as fucking hell.

"Dr…Audrey," Amy finally sputters out, beating me to the punch. I don't miss the way she retracts her usual nickname, like she isn't exactly sure she's allowed to calm me that. "What…where did you…come from?" Her voice is quiet, her words hesitant, her eyes wide and uncertain and even if I wasn't wrong in my decision concerning hunting with Daryl, I was wrong in treating Amy and Glenn the way I did, even if I was upset, and I do owe _them _an apology.

Chewing absentmindedly on my lip, I sheepishly shrug my shoulders and tuck my fingers into the back pocket of my shorts. "Uh…I was just…making my way back to my tent when I thought I should come talk to you guys…first." Amy blinks at me in bewilderment, no doubt remembering how I had specifically made clear that I _didn't _want to talk, and I can't help but coloring in shame. I huff out a breath and reach up to rub the back of my neck, averting my eyes to a spot just over Glenn's shoulder. Come on Audrey. Man the fuck up.

"Ok…look. First things first…I'm sorry," I begin and out of the corner of my eye, I see Glenn's jaw fall open and Amy inhale sharply. "Not about the whole…hunting thing. I'm not apologizing for that but um…afterwards…I shouldn't have snapped at you. I was just…upset but still. That's no excuse. So…I'm sorry. Truly."

The words awkwardly fumble out of my mouth but I think it's more due to the fact that I can feel _everyone's eyes on me _than the actual action itself. I can feel one particular set burn holes through the back of my neck and I don't have to turn around to know it's Shane, probably hearing how I'm not the least bit contrite about other things. Yeah well, tough shit. This isn't about you Shane. This is about my friends Glenn and Amy and the fact that I want to help _them _just as much as I wanted to help Daryl and this time, I'm not taking no for an answer.

I'm left shifting uncomfortably in the dirt for a few moments as Glenn and Amy process my words. In that time, I drum up the courage to actually look at them. Glenn's stands to the right, 5 foot 9 and kind of dirty. His grey t-shirt is soaked through with sweat, sweat that I can see beading on his brow beneath the brim of his red cap, and his over shirt, a white, baseball looking number, is streaked with dirt and dust and what looks like…pollen, bright and yellow on his shoulders. I don't have to glance down to my own arms to know I have the same color dusted across my skin, from that tree that I had spent and hour sitting in and that Glenn had spent an hour standing beneath, trying to coax me down. One look at Amy shows that she's in a near identical state, her jeans coated in dirt and her pink t-shirt grubby from running after me. I grimace with guilt.

Glenn is the first to speak up this time and I find myself locking eyes with him, seeing understanding and his own apology in chocolate brown orbs. "We uh…didn't mean to make you more upset Audrey. We just…wanted to make sure you were ok. You were bleeding and…" He trails off and looks just the slightest bit uncomfortable as he drops his voice and adds, "And you looked like you were going to cry."

I have to suddenly curb the wild urge to brush my cheeks and look for the tear tracks that I know aren't there. I hadn't cried. Kind of wanted to but I hadn't. And still…Glenn and Amy saw. I feel embarrassed but more than that…I don't know. Grateful? Touched? Something of that ilk because I was an asshole and my friends still tried to comfort me. Staring at the two of them, I blink and see the ghostly visages of Kaleigh and Mathias superimpose their way on Glenn and Amy's faces. Friends. Past and present. And just as important.

"I know," I tell him, pulling on the fringes of my fucked up hair. I wrinkle my nose and sigh. "I was just…I don't know. I just needed some time alone to think and…stuff." Wow. Very articulate Audrey. Pulitzer prize for you. "I didn't mean to take it out on you though."

Amy smiles, tentative and soft beside Glenn. "We know that to. Just worried you know? Are you…are you ok now?" she asks and I can see in the way she bites her lip that she's half expecting me to turn tail and sprint away. I cast her an equally timid grin.

"Better," I respond. "Little worse for wear though. Almost fell out of that damn tree a few times on my way down."

Shaking his head, Glenn snorts and I feel some of the tension between us dissolve, melt away like ice before the sun. "How the hell did you even get up that high? I got like…10 feet and that was all I could reach."

Smile widening, I lean forward and whisper, "I'm half monkey," like it's the world's biggest secret. Mirroring grins stretch across Glenn and Amy's lips and, suddenly, it is almost like today didn't happen and we are all right again. I can still see the unasked question in their eyes, flickering like a shadow, but neither of them ask it and I don't answer it. At least not now, with everyone else drawing back towards us. I don't want to talk about Daryl or Shane or any of that shit but…Glenn and Amy deserve to not be lied to so…I resolve to tell them later.

Amy reaches out, still slow, like she's giving me the chance to draw back, and flips a strand of hair into my eyes. I protest half-heartedly but she's already laughing. "I actually don't doubt that," she says and her blue eyes are shinning. "I also think you're part deer or something, the way you run. Do you have hooves in those shoes and a tail I don't know about?"

I smile around the flinch at the deer reference, the voice of a deeper memory echoing in my head with the words, _"Ya ran from me like ya did, fuckin sprintin through the woods like a god damn deer." _Amy now, Daryl later.

Making my eyes bulge comically, I gasp and put a hand to my mouth. "How did you know?" I stage whisper and both Glenn and Amy roll their eyes. The motion is almost as warm as a hug and it portrays their forgiveness just as well.

"Yeah yeah. Let's get some food in the chimera then before she starves to death," Amy teases and I can't help but jokingly point out that a chimera is a blend of lion, snake and goat, not human, monkey, and deer. The glare that earns me is sharp and poignant and only a little bit heated. Lifting an arm, Amy stabs a finger towards the campfire. "Dinner. Now."

I laugh, a bubbly feeling, as I start to turn but the sound dies in my throat as I catch sight of Shane, staring at me, leaned up against the front of the RV. And just like that, I remember why I walked out into the open to begin with. The city, the supply run, Glenn wanting me to go and Shane saying no. And, just like that, my smile slips from my lips and my easy mood evaporates. Shane isn't glaring at me; he doesn't even look upset. In fact, if anything, he looks sorry, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head and looking up at me through his lashes. He notices me staring and tries to smile at me but it falls flat when I don't reciprocate.

Behind me, Amy and Glenn grow silent and tense when they see whom I'm staring at. They don't say anything but I know they're worrying about me having another outburst or, better yet, running away again. From the wary way Shane is regarding me, he's thinking along the same lines. Well…how bout I surprise people? Again…but this time in a good way. Anyway.

Turning around, I cock my head and smile, disarming. "Hey Glenn?"

The man starts at my voice, looking concerned but answers anyway. "Y…yeah?"

"Follow me for a second would you? I need to talk to someone and then we can get some food."

Glenn looks hesitant but I don't give him a second to question me because I'm spinning back around and already walking towards Shane. Amy gives a startled _meep _but it sounds like she's following me as well because I hear two sets of feet shuffle the dirt behind me.

Watching me approach, Shane blanches of all color, brown eyes going wide as I get closer. This is obviously not what he was expecting and I feel dully satisfied that I've thrown him off balance once more. I come within a few feet of the former cop and stop, giving him, and me, some space.

"Hey Shane," I say. My voice is light and pleasant enough but by the way Shane straightens and widens his stance, you'd think I'd come up yelling.

"Audrey," he responds cautiously. "You uh…want to talk?"

I nod and Shane exhales harshly and opens his mouth, probably about to launch into some speech, but I shake my head and hold up a hand, stopping him before he can start. He blinks at me, confused, but closes his mouth all the same, wincing at the same time as he looks at the blood that's dried on my wrist. I drop my hand quickly after that. Once again, I can feel all kinds of eyes on me but I do my best to ignore them as I think about what I want to say.

There's still that angry ember in me, a flicker, a flare, that wants to yell at Shane, read him the riot act, but it's an urge I can curb. Doing that would only make things worse and I don't even know if it would make me happy in the short run. So I ixnay that idea. But what do I say then? Because I'm not sorry, not for what he probably wants me to be sorry for. I more than likely should have thought this through before I walked over here but it's already done so I'm just going to wing it here.

"I just want to say I'm sorry. For blowing up at you. I still don't agree with what you said but…I shouldn't have reacted so poorly. So, I'm sorry."

Shane looks as blown away as he did when I first yelled at him and even if I can't see their faces, I bet everyone else is wearing a similar expression. I guess I can't blame them. From my performance earlier, they were probably expecting me to come after Shane with my katana, not an apology. But, for what I need, I have to apologize and, honestly, it does make me feel a little better. Holding grudges, being pissed, that takes up too much energy nowadays and with trying to survive and all, I just can't spare it.

"O…oh," he stutters, fumbling. "I…oh. Um all right. Well…I'm…I'm sorry too. I was...ya know…a dick. Didn't mean to hurt your arm but I did and…sorry."

Shane's even less articulate with his apology than I was. That fact makes me feel a little bit better. I wave him off dismissively. "I've had worse, don't worry. It's not even that deep."

There's a little suspicion in Shane's gaze now, because the cuts are a little deep, there's enough blood to prove it, but he purses his lips and nods anyway. Some tension eases out of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. "Ok. Well…still…sorry. Um…how bout I patch you up though?" He jerks his head behind him, towards the RV. "Dale has some bandages left and ya don't want an infection."

I smile and shrug. "All right but um…I want to talk to you about something else first."

Something in my voice must tip me off because the tentative smile that had been creeping up on Shane's lips twitched and died again. His eyes narrow and there's that suspicion again. "What about?" he asks and already, I can hear the steel that was in his voice before, the no nonsense, _you will_ _listen and like it, _tone. I do my best to not let it fan the ember in me.

Taking a deep breath, I step back until I'm abreast of Glenn, leaning him just the slightest as I look Shane dead in the eye. "I want to go with Glenn and the rest of the group into the city. I heard what Glenn said and he's right. I'm fast and, out of everyone, I'm the only one that knows his or her way around a weapon; that truly knows how to fight. I want to help." I say the last words slowly, strongly and with emphasis.

And still, Shane seems to not hear me. "Audrey look…I'm sorry but no. We have enough people going already," he explains and when I try to interrupt him, he cuts me off. "Besides…you're too young. I can't, in good conscious, send a kid into that city. If you…I don't want to be responsible if you get hurt."

If I didn't see the honest concern in his eyes, I'd be pissed again, that ember in me slowly gaining fuel and fire. But I can see, now that I'm a little calmer, that Shane actually believes what he is saying. That he is, truly, worried about me because I'm too young or weak or whatever. Well, I just need to convince him otherwise. And preferably without yelling. That didn't seem to get me very far last time. Maybe calm logic will work better.

"Shane," I start and this time, I cut him off when he tries to interrupt. "I know you're worried but you're being a little biased about this. Glenn is only a few years older than me and he's gone into the city _alone _numerous times. And he doesn't even known how to shoot a gun that well!"

Glenn mutters some kind of half-hearted protest beside me but I ignore him and press on. "Look. I know you see me and think I'm just a stupid kid but I'm not. I survived well enough on my own for a month and, honestly, I've been fighting almost all my life." In more ways than one but he doesn't have to know that. "But I can't just sit on my ass and twiddle my thumbs and wait on people to save me and fix my problems. I_ have_ to help. You wouldn't let me go with Daryl and, though I **don't **agree with your decision, I understand. But I want to go with Glenn. The more people, the more protection."

"The more distraction," Shane interjects and I frown up at him.

"The more hands that can bring back supplies. You said it yourself. We are running drastically low. If I can bring a few more days worth a food in…that's worth a little risk," I say.

"I'm not willing to risk that," the former cop growls.

"But _I _am."

Shane blinks at the iron in my voice, the flint that must be in my eye. I sigh and rub my hand tiredly through my hair. "It's…it's my life," I say gently. "I don't want to die Shane. I'm not suicidal. But…I want to help everyone here. And I'm willing to risk a little to make sure that we don't starve. To make sure that _Carl _doesn't starve, that Sophia and Louis and Eliza don't."

It's the mention of the children, especially Carl, that makes the first hesitation appear on Shane's face. It's the chink in the armor that I needed and I go for it. "Please, Shane. Please…_let me go._"

I don't tell him that even if he says no, I'm going anyway. I don't tell him that I'm not about to let him make another one of my friends risk their lives without me. I don't tell him any of that. I let him think that this is _his _decision because…even if it's a little shallow, I know Shane is a man that needs to seem in control. I feel bad for doing this, being manipulative to even this small degree, but I'm not about to back down because I can still see the pointed edges of Sophia's shoulders and hear the hungry growls of Eliza's stomach.

It's a tense moment of silence that follows but I don't back down, I don't look away. I gaze right up into Shane's face, into the deep brown of his irises, close enough to see the splatter of nearly invisible freckles across the bridge of his nose. I will myself to seem strong and unafraid, even if the thought of walkers and Atlanta is making me shake on the inside, because Shane needs to think that I'm old enough, strong enough, to do this. I don't want to fight again with Shane. I want him to give his consent to make this _that _much easier.

Shane mulls my words over. I can see them tumbling in his head, see the gears turning. His jaw clicks and he grinds his teeth and his nostrils flare but then, suddenly, he sighs and the rigidity goes out of him. He scrubs a hand wearily through his hair and looks at me through his lashes again. He still doesn't look a hundred percent convinced but…he relents. Finally. Surprisingly.

"Fine," he sighs. "Fine. Ya can go with the group." I smile stupidly and I'm about to thank him but he isn't done yet. "But you will stick close to Morales and you will listen to what Glenn tells you. Don't go anywhere alone and don't do _anything _without being told. Understand?"

Shane sounds commanding again and demanding, like when he refused to let me go with Daryl, but I'm barely paying attention because I'm going. I'm going into the city and I'm going to help camp and I'm _going _to help Glenn. I won't let them down. I will not be useless.

And damn it, I _will_ be worth the trouble.

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><p><strong>And there it is :P Little shorter and, again, fillerish. I didnt really like it all that much but it's what my brain vomited so i hope it was adequate enough :P<strong>

**Please review! :D I love reviews! And, i promise, next chapter starts the show off :)**

**Until next time guys!**

**~Shadows**


	16. The Way is Shut and the Dead Keep It

**Bit of a longer wait. Sorry bout that but not as long as last time :D Anyway, here is my first attempt at weaving my story into TWD canon :) I kind of combined episodes one and two a little bit. The end of episode one is where Glenn hails rick in the tank and episode two is where everyone meets. That's where this chapter begins and ends. You'll see what I mean as you read :) Super long chapter ahead and I like this one LOADS better than the last and I hope you will too! Hope you enjoy and remember to review!**

**Oh and btw, I wrote this one a little different structure wise. It will become apparent right of the bat :}**

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><p><strong>Chapter 16: The Way is Shut and the Dead Keep It<strong>

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><p><em><strong>Present Time<strong>_

There is this funny misconception that people have about war, battles, and fighting in general.

Now, I'm not a soldier. Hell, I'm not even old enough to join the military, if we had one left that is, which we don't since that was about the first thing to fall when shit hit the fan, right before the national government, who, up until the very end, attempted to curb mass hysteria and promise that a cure was just around the next bend. So no, I'm not a solider. I haven't been to war, in the technical sense. I've never worn fatigues, never had some drill sergeant bark orders at me, never been out of the state much less the country, and I've sure as hell never fired a gun.

But, for the past two months, I've been fighting a war nonetheless.

Because that's what life is now: a war, a battle, a constant struggle to stay out of the enemy's reach and, more importantly, the grasp of their teeth. I've been fighting all my life, in one fashion or another, but these past weeks…nothing can compare. Not to the ice cold douse of fear I feel when a moan rises into the air. Not to the burning fire in my veins as I _fightrunsurvive. _Not to the crippling…_nothing _sensation when shock and disbelief set in as I realize…it's the fucking end of the world and I've got nothing left. And I have realized that too, slowly, steadily, over days and weeks, like an avalanche slow as molasses, burying me deeper and deeper and deeper.

The first time that it really hit me was the night after Amy and I had our sorta-not-really-kinda-fight, when she was depressed about her birthday and her friends and I was too oblivious to see. That night, I had lied awake until nearly dawn, just staring up at the grey material of the tent I was sharing with Abby, listening to her soft snores and replaying Amy's words and emotions over and over in my mind, like a perverse lullaby with the opposite affect because, instead of dropping off, my eyes refused to close. And, as I had lain there, gazing up unfocusedly, thinking about Amy's Emma and her fate, the fate _my _friends undoubtedly shared…I had been suddenly crippled with a paralyzing sense of hopelessness and despair that had blindsided me with a vengeance.

There was no refugee center; there was no safety.

I had known these facts for a while, days, weeks. It's why I was even in this camp in the first place, my unforeseen plan B that had been dropped in my lap. But, for some reason, it had truly just…_struck _me then, in the middle of the night, me on my back with a flimsy sleeping bag around my legs and a tree root digging into the middle of my spine. _There was no refugee center; there was no safety._ Those thoughts cycled through my head until the words were blurred and nearly unrecognizable, jagged vowels and rounded out consonants. _Therewasnorefugeecenter;therewasnosafety. _

Then I had thought that if the government and military couldn't even accomplish this small thing, couldn't even secure just _one _city, one _sliver _of land, the fact of the matter is they weren't in any condition to accomplish anything else. If they were even alive that is. And that was so unlikely I might as well have been waiting for Jesus Christ to come stepping out of the clouds, apology on his lips for the clusterfuck the world had fallen into, like God had accidently dropped the fucking ball.

So, what was left? That had been the question. My home was gone, the city more than likely razed to the ground. My family, sensei…I couldn't even think of their fates. Just picturing Mom, her red hair and laughing blue eyes, or Manny and his gapped tooth smile, or Irina and her freckled oh so innocent face…it had left me breathless and gasping and just racked with a pain so acute, death was a welcome alternative. There was nothing left behind me, just ravaged land and an ocean of corpses, both moving and non.

And…what was I to look forward to? That thought had been the worst of them all. The only thing that had kept me moving that first month was the thought that, if I kept moving, if I kept fighting, if I kept enduring, I would reach the promised land soon enough. All this death and devastation would be just a bad memory and I would be safe behind high fences, eating healthy amounts of food and sleeping in a bed, not having to worry if a walker was going to crop up in the middle of the night and drag me to hell. But that was just a pipe dream; there was nothing left, nothing but a rag tag group of survivors that had managed to find this small sliver of relatively safe land. But how long was that to last? How long could any of it last? The people were nice enough but it was the end of the fucking world. Nice didn't get you fucking anywhere; nice didn't promise you were going to be alive come next fucking sunrise.

As I lied there that night, it had suddenly been too much. Too much pain, too much hurt, too much suffering and for what? Nothing. I had fought for _nothing. _A few creature comforts and a semblance of security that was as safe as a paper-fucking-bag. That…wasn't what I had wanted, what I had looked for, what I had _prayed _for. It wasn't fair; it was a sick joke. It…wasn't worth living for.

A realization had come to me then, simple and clear, like a goddamn epiphany.

It was just so fucking easy. The only thing to do now, the only logical, reasonable, rational outcome in this completely fucked up, nonsensical world…was to give up. The second I had thought that, my sensei's face had jumped to the forefront of my mind and guilt had settled in my veins, leaden and immobilizing but I shoved it away. I wasn't being melodramatic. I wasn't being the typical teenage _oh woe is me my boyfriend broke up with me I want to die _girl here. My dilemma was real; my agony was true. Why the _fuck_ should I keep enduring? It was a simple yet oh so profound question. My past was merely ashes, ashes and a pain so deep it was unfathomable. Tears had spilled from my eyes, unstoppable, untamable and I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood sliding down my throat. Because my whole _family _was gone, _**gone, **_and my future only held the promise of a short, brutal existence that inevitably ended in painful and agonizing death. Who wanted to live when that was the promised plan of events? The thought alone had scared and disgusted me to the point where I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't want to live like that, with the Grim Reaper's scythe poised just above my neck every second of the day, like some fucking cow just waiting to be delivered to the slaughter house. _"Wouldn't it be so much nicer just to fall asleep here_," I had thought suddenly. "_Just fall asleep and just never wake up?" _People did that all the time didn't they? I remembered I read something once about people who had severe depression; that they would sometimes just go to bed and die, painlessly, in their sleep. No heart attacks, no strokes, they just simply…gave up on living. "_I could do that," _I remember thinking. It seemed plausible enough. I certainly was in enough mental and emotional pain. And if that didn't work there was always the more…proactive approach. Suicide. And if people said I would go to hell because of it well then, fine because it couldn't be any worse than what I was experiencing already.

So, yeah; I had thought about killing myself. It was mainly in those first few days, in the dark watches of the night with no one around to see me look sidelong at the edge of my tanto and the wicked gleam the moonlight gave it. One could say that it was the rest of the survivors, Glenn and Amy and Carl and Sophia, that kept me alive, kept me going, that stayed my hand and, certainly, they did play a factor. I did, and do, find comfort in Amy's grin and company. I find solace in Carl and Sophia's quicksilver grins and childlike innocence, their bell like laughter. I find happiness in Glenn's attempt to teach me spare words of Korean, something no one really knows about and…I did find a certain measure of peace, skinning rabbits and squirrels beside Daryl in the depth of the woods. But, the main reason my heart is still beating, that I am still breathing, is…I'm really just chickenshit. I might have thought about it, contemplated it, but I could never really, _truly, _go through with it. Killing myself. Ending my life. The truth is, I didn't have the stomach for it, still don't, the courage or the cowardice or whatever you wanted to call it.

In result, I'm left fighting this war with no battle plan, no commanding officers, and no idea how to win. It's day to day, just trying to survive. More than once, I can't help but wonder if this is what the Vietnam War felt like, boys my age thrust into a similar fucked up situation with no direction or heading and a greater chance at dying than seeing the end of the shitfest they found themselves in. It really makes me wonder and I wonder if they also realized the misconception people have on war. I like to think that those boys did find out real quick, in those humid jungles, winding trails, and gangrene water. I can't think of any way they couldn't have.

See, people always think, at least I did before and a lot of Hollywood movies portrayed this sentiment alright, that it was the actual battles that fucked you up. And, to a certain degree, this is true. Fighting, especially for your life, does shit to you, no doubt about that. But that's not what really gets to you, at the end of the day.

It's the fucking _waiting. _

It's the goddamn anticipation, the calm before the storm, when everything seems fucking still and quiet and placid and you almost want to let your guard down if it wasn't for the warning, the unease at the stillness, screaming in the back of your mind. It's the bated breath you hold as you wait for the other shoe to drop and suddenly not being able to remember if the first one had already fallen.

When I'm fighting, it's different. Everything is action, reaction. Swing right, roll left, jump to feet and run my ass off. Keep moving. Don't let them catch you. Watch their teeth, their hands and don't you **dare** fall down because then you're dead or worse. There is no room for thought outside of the immediate; just muscle memory and strategizing how to survive this particular battle so I can live to fight another fucking day.

But leading up to a battle? When you _know _it's coming? When you're expecting it or, worse yet, when you're charging into it, as I am about to do? That's the fucking worst feeling. Even worse than after the fighting, when people have died and I've…left them behind. Because then…I couldn't do anything. What's done had been done and I had to keep moving because there was nothing I could change. But this before place, on the cusp of it…well let's just say that imagination is really a soldier's worst fucking enemy.

I'm usually not this morbid. I try not to be because if I start down this desolate path, reviewing the clusterfuck my life has become, the shit that I've lived through and the shit I've yet to face…it would make anyone want to eat a damn bullet. So, instead, I immerse myself in other things. In friends, Glenn and Amy, and asinine talk to keep the dark thoughts at bay. I dive into Carl's free laughter and Sophia's hesitant grins to stave off the shadows. But now…it's kind of hard to be all sunny sunshine and daisies and rainbows when I'm standing in this abandoned department store, bloodied katana nearly falling out of my lax fingers, staring at the ocean of the undead surging before me, two planes of tempered glass all that's between us and the flood.

"Every geek for miles around heard you popping off rounds," T-Dog snarls somewhere off to my right. I don't glance at the man he's addressing even though I can see the newcomer out of the corner of my eye, a blur of beige and dirt. I don't have to. The fear is pliable, in all of us, even without me looking into any faces.

"You just rang the dinner bell," Andrea says. Her voice is defeated, words shaky as we all take in the rabid walkers trying to batter their way to us. A tremor of my own runs the length of my body.

How did it come to this?

It was just supposed to be a routine scavenge. In. Out. No geek the wiser. This wasn't supposed to happen.

A particular walker, with a rock no less in hand, slams against the glass doors and cracks spiral out, a network of complex webs. All of us start at the sight and the noise; we take a step back.

But, as they say, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. (1)

"Get the picture now?" Morales growls to the man that had caused this, the man whose shots were the reason the walkers had found us.

And, I don't know about the other man, but I sure do.

There's no way we can get out of this. We're surrounded. Blocked in. Trapped. This was just supposed to be a routine scavenge. And it has turned into the death of us all.

I've said that imagination is a soldier's worst enemy and even though I'm not a soldier in name…I can fucking relate.

Not for the first time, I selfishly wish, in the blackest corners of my mind, that I had listened to Shane, that I had shut my goddamn mouth and stayed the fuck in camp. As I watch the geeks beat against the glass, a barrier that can't last very long, I spare a thought for Amy, looking towards the road, waiting the arrival of her sister, triumphant with supplies. She'll look for her coming but Andrea won't return. Miranda will patiently await Morales, her husband, Louis and Eliza at her side but she will wait for the rest of her life. Carl and Sophia will wait to know the ending of _The Giver _and, maybe, someone will read it to them. Their mothers perhaps. Maybe even Shane or Dale. But it won't be me.

I wonder how long it will take them to figure out our fate. Will they begin to worry by tonight? Or will they wait till morning to pace? Will it take a few days before the realization sets in? Will…will Daryl be back by then, dragging back meat that will last days more now that there were fewer mouths to feed?

Will he…will he spare me a thought or am I really not even worth the trouble, the energy, to think about? Will Daryl mourn me, a " business partner", as he mourns the loss of his brother?

I don't know. I'll never know. All I know is that, after two months of fighting, struggling to survive in this battle zone, I've finally made it to Atlanta. I've finally come to the end.

The glass shudders and the snarls of walkers echo in my ears, the moans of things aching for my flesh.

How did it come to this?

* * *

><p><em><strong>A few hours earlier<strong>_

It's not even dawn yet but I've been awake for hours. To be honest, I don't think I ever even went to sleep. Maybe there were a few seconds, a handful of minutes where I dozed off but it couldn't have been more than a half an hour. And that was _really _stretching it. The thing is…ever since Shane agreed to let me go…I've been in constant motion. After dinner was over last night, I had sat around with Glenn for a few hours, listening to what the plan was for today, the nuances he kept thinking of, the small details. He needed someone to bounce ideas off of, to listen, to input, and I guess I fit the job description perfectly. Man, I never thought Glenn was dumb but the way he thought of things, the angles and back up moves…I'll have to ask him one of these days if he ever played chess because I'm sure he could have taken on the best of them.

It had been well past dark by the time Glenn, yawning and barely able to keep his eyes open, had said goodnight and stumbled over to his tent, leaving me alone beside the dying fire. Amy had left the two of us not long after mealtime had finished, claiming she was tired and needed to rest. Glenn and I had mutually decided not to call out our friend on the fact that we knew she was worried about her older sister and just wanted to spend some time with her before Andrea went into the city. To be fair, Amy was worried about us too but…Andrea was blood. She came first.

Alone, save the flickering flames and Jim's quiet presence keeping lookout atop the RV, I had gotten up to head over to my tent, get some sleep before the "big day." But…I hadn't been tired. At all. I should have been; after everything the day had thrown at me I should have been ready to drop. But I wasn't. I think, am pretty sure, it had something to do with nerves and anticipation but whatever it was, I couldn't sleep if I wanted to. I had ants in my skin and energy in my veins and sleeping was not even an option. I had contemplated climbing the Winnebago and offering to take watch so Jim could catch some shut eye but I was almost certain the older man would turn me down, tell me to get some sleep. Kind of pointless even trying.

So, instead, I decided a little swordplay couldn't hurt. Truthfully, I was a bit out of practice. I did my best to squeeze in at least an hour of sparring a day but, with everything else vying for my attention, I had slacked off a little. Sensei would be disappointed. But, I had nothing else to do and, with Atlanta looming a few hours away, practice seemed the most logical option. Never know. It could prove helpful.

In the beginning, it had been a little awkward. It was almost midnight, the dark thick and unwavering, and the moving shadows the fire cast did nothing to help me keep my balance. Honestly though, I think I was just embarrassed. When I did find time to practice, it was usually alone or with Glenn, Amy, or Carl as an audience. The first two barely even acknowledged what I was doing either, usually talking me through my drills and, with the moves being so ingrained in me and feeling so at ease in the company of my friends, I had the barest of stutters. Carl, and occasionally Sophia, was a more rapt audience but he was a kid, innocent and awestruck, and sue me if I tried to show off a little for him. Others had seen me practice, hell the entire camp saw me fight Shane all those weeks ago. But usually, people only spared me a passing glance, vaguely curious but not enough to stop what they were doing. Having Jim on top of the RV, nothing to do but cast a cursory eye around for danger and then watch me, moving rapidly through reflexed moves and positions…just a tad bit awkward. I'm not saying that Jim was being creepy or anything! He's one of the nicer men of camp, quiet and reserved but respectful. It was just…weird, made me feel embarrassed. At least for a little bit. But then, as I got lost in the motions, the pull of muscles, the shift of my feet, it got easier. I forgot Jim was even there. And, for the first time since the world ended, I truly practiced. Went through every move Sensei had ever taught me and then modified some of my own, slashes and jabs aimed higher up, towards the head region instead the center of mass as I had been taught. I was so caught up in my own little world that I had nearly taken a limb off of Dale when he replaced Jim on watch, the older man concerned as he walked up to ask what I was doing.

I had been disoriented by the question, blinking stupidly at Dale as I processed his words. And when I finally registered what he had said, my body had chosen that moment to remind me, oh yeah Audrey, you've been moving, almost nonstop, for hours. Gasping for breath, with sweat running into my eyes, I had stuttered out something about practicing and the trip into Atlanta. It didn't make much sense to my own ears, what I could hear over the blood rushing in my head anyway, but Dale seemed to understand and the vague worry in his brown eyes turned into abject anxiety. He told me that it was a few hours before dawn and that I should get some rest before I left. The way he spoke…it was clearly obvious that he didn't like me going on the trip but, after everything with Shane and Daryl, he decided it was wise to keep his mouth shut.

A small part of me had wanted to argue, I could go on a little longer and I needed to be ready for this trip, but seeing the expression on Dale's face I had quickly relented. And by that time, fuck was I tired. Reluctantly, I had trudged back to my tent and unceremoniously tripped into my sleeping bag, letting my eyes fall shut before I was even all the way down.

I woke up a while ago. I'm not sure how long I slept but when my eyes cracked open, it was still dark outside, my tent nothing but shadows. And by the way my eyes stung and the dull throbbing in my temples, I know I didn't get much sleep. I tried to doze off again, I really did, but was unable, that itching feeling crawling through my blood again. Truth be told, I could have gotten up, started to do something, sharpen my blade, tanto, see if anyone else is up yet and if they need help but…here I am, still in bed, anxious to get moving but loathe to start.

A thought has been pulsing in the back of my mind for a long time now and, weakened by sleep deprivation and nerves, I finally relent, my will crumbling in the dark.

Turning my head slightly, I squint in the gloom of predawn to see if Abby's awake. Her back is to me, her auburn hair black in the darkness, but the rise and fall of her shoulders is slow and measure, the deep breaths of sleep. I bite my lip and keep my eyes on her for a second more, just to make sure, before I roll over and reach for my old hiking pack, stuffed into the corner of the tent, right near my head.

The fabric is worn between my fingers, threadbare, almost soft. It's once cobalt color is faded and lackluster, bleached by the unforgiving Georgia sun. There's a hole near the bottom, what used to be a small tear exacerbated into a rift the size of two of my fingers and if I looked closely enough, I can see straight inside. But I leave the hole alone for now and instead slowly bring the pack into my lap, curling upwards into a sitting position in the process. It's not as heavy as I remember but that's because what clothes I had stuffed inside that last night are now stacked around my side of the tent, there aren't many but together they had been quite a weight, and, obviously, there is no more food inside to weigh it down. There are a few protein bars, squirreled away at the bottom, but that's it. Most of the heft is paper and ink, books, a map of Georgia, and a plain manila folder stuffed in the back. I purse my lips at pale smudge of the folder in the dark and bypass it completely, digging towards the bottom. There are a few other miscellaneous items I come across, a flashlight, book of matches, a folded bandanna with a peach pit tucked into its center and a loose tube of chapstick. I blink at the small cylinder and pull it out, finding it nearly full. Huh. I lick my chapped lips and, though I should probably save this, I pop the cap off and drag the waxy substance across my lips, feeling the balm seep into the splits and tears of dehydrated skin. I close my eyes for a moment to revel in the sensation before slipping the tube back inside the bag, shifting things around as I search for my prize.

It usually isn't in this pack. I usually put it into the smaller backpack that Glenn got me, the green number that's lying at the foot of my sleeping bag. But the other day when I was with…Daryl, I had accidently gotten some squirrel blood smeared across the face of it. It wasn't so much the stain that bothered me but…I didn't want anything smelling the blood and well…you know. So, I had taken everything out of the bag and stored it back here, in my tent. My journal, _The Giver_, canteen and a few other odds and ends. I had cleaned the bag that day but, for some reason, hadn't put everything back in yet.

I finally find my journal tucked into the bottom corner, pressed between a copy of _Catcher in the Rye_ and a spare water bottle that I didn't remember packing but somehow ended up taking with me. Carefully, I pull the small book into my lap and push the large hiking pack back into the corner, casting Abby a calculating glance when the movement makes a louder noise than I intended. When the older woman doesn't stir, I look down at my hands.

For a few minutes, I just stare at the nondescript, black, rectangle in my hands. It's not that big, smaller than a standard sheet of copy paper, but it's thick, compact, like the Christian Bible. A tiny bitter smile pulls at my lips in the dark. A bible; it's an adequate enough description. Daryl said I read it like one anyway. The thought of the hunter awakens a dull ache behind my eyes and I shake my head. No; don't think about Daryl. That's not why I pulled this out.

Still shaking my head, I flip open the book, feeling the worn leather cover bend easily in my hands. It's too dark to see any of the writing on the pages but I'm not looking for words right now so I skate over all the poems and quotes and little things that I've scribbled secretly into these pages, things I've shared with a handful of people, people I don't want to think about. As the pages flutter between my fingers, I think I see the words _Hymn Before Action_ for just a fraction of a second but the shadows are too deep for me to be sure and I'm already countless more pages past before the sight actually processes.

I finally reach my goal near the end of the journal, wedged between the small section of empty pages I have left. There aren't many, just a handful: one, two, three, seven in all. They are of varying sizes, different ages, some bursting with color and others the muted shades of black and white and grey. I'm not even sure how these pictures ended up stuffed between the bindings of my journal. I certainly don't remember putting them there. It was probably out of laziness on my part to find frames or to fetch the scrapbook Annie Marie had given to me as a birthday present freshmen year. Whatever the reason, I'm speechless with gratitude because of it; without these pictures…I'd have nothing from my past than my swords and a few words hastily jotted down over the years. The back of my throat begins to itch, a tight constricting feeling, but I ignore it as best I can as I bring the few scraps of ink and paper and gloss closer to my face.

It's still really dark in the tent, everything blurred and soft around the edges with shadows. I'd probably see ten times better outside, with the moon and the stars and the soon to be rising sun, maybe even aided by the remnants of the fire, but I can't get myself to move. Even with Abby five feet away, I feel alone and private, huddled in my corner, and, more than that, I don't think I could stand to look at the pictures in more light than the barest of gloom.

The first picture is a small black and white number, no larger than the size of my hand. It's fairly recent; I can even remember the day it was taken. The tightness in my throat intensifies and my eyes get a little blurry but I can still see enough to make out my smiling face, squished in between Kaleigh's and Annie Marie's, Mathias' mischievous brown eyes and unruly mop of hair peeking up across the bottom edge of the photo. The corners of my lips twitch but they can't figure out if they want to turn up or down, smile or frown, and I end up pressing the trembling edges together tightly, the skin more than likely blanching with the pressure. Tentatively, with a shaking finger, I reach out and trace the frozen faces of my friends.

It had been spring break and, already, the air had been warming up, taking on the humid edge of summer. Kaleigh's parents had offered to take her to Miami for break but…the softhearted idiot had declined, saying it was senior year and she wanted to spend high school's last spring break with her three best friends, the three of us. This picture was taken at the community pool, down the street from Mathias' house. It wasn't exactly the "coolest" thing the three of us could have done but only Kaleigh had a car and it was in the shop so we couldn't exactly go anywhere far. Besides, it was just on the other side of warm and we were bored. Doesn't matter though. We had fun anyway.

A tear slips out unbidden and I start as it lands right on the image of my face, the droplet of liquid sliding across the glossy page and skating off the edge. I turn the picture over, shaking off the water, and I pause as I see Mathias' spidery scrawl across the back.

_Me and my girls. Poolside. March 18, 2012. Spring Break, the cool way. ;)_

The small winking face at the end is just so…Mat. I don't know whether to laugh or break down crying.

Swallowing harshly, I flip the picture back over and take one last look at the four of us, my hair still long, my face still rounded, Annie Marie with her striped one piece, a smear of sunscreen still stark against the bridge of her nose, Kaleigh in her sexy bikini, her smile a million watts and brilliant, Mathias' smooth brow and twinkling eyes, and set the picture aside.

The next picture is the one of Sensei and I, the day he gave me my katana, my young face practically beaming as I clutched the steel to me. This is the photo that had fallen out when I had tried to hide away those peaches I found, that day at East Point, the day I met Daryl, just a few hours later. It still causes a sharp pain in the center of my chest, no less potent by the passage of time. I was fourteen when Sensei gave me my own sword, just about to start high school. He had said that it was a gift; a gift, a reward, and a milestone. A gift for my birthday, a reward for all my hard work the last four years I had been with him, and a milestone as I began a new stage of my life. I remember I had been barely listening to his words, to busy still gaping at the shiny length of metal in my hands to give Sensei my undivided attention. I spare half a glance towards my own face again before I lock my eyes on Sensei.

Sensei was already…older when I met him; into his sixties. But, for some reason, he always seemed timeless to me. Even now, as I take in the stock of short white hair on his head, the deep wrinkles around his eyes…he seems ageless. I bite my lip and exhale a watery whisper of a chuckle. I haven't given up yet Sensei. I'm still enduring. I'm still continuing on. I hope…I hope you're proud, wherever you are. Letting my eyes rove over Sensei's visage one last time, committing things to memory, I set that picture aside as well, wondering what the next one will hold.

I'm barely able to suppress my gasp as my eyes focus on the next photo, the colors bright and stark and shiny, even in the dark. There's red tinsel in the background and along the outer edge I can barely make out the needles of a pine tree, white blurs along the fringe, the unfocused image of what had been flashing lights.

It's…a Christmas photo, the one from this past year, impromptu and completely random. Just like Mom always is.

_Was._ I stop breathing at that one word and am left just staring, unblinkingly, at the picture resting in my completely lax grip.

Mom is sprawled across the floor in the foreground of the picture, having dived there to beat the camera's timer, half cradling a shrieking-with-laughter Irina in her arms. Her dark red hair spills across her shoulders and into Manny's lap, who is kneeling at her head. There's a toy truck clutched in his little fingers and he's grinning from ear to ear, proudly displaying the gap where his two front teeth used to be. Irina is tucked against Mom's chest, her mouth as wide as it will go as she laughs without restraint, dirty blonde curls in disarray around her freckled face. Mom's face is pressed up against Irina's, smiling beatifically, her blue eyes bright with mirth and mischief. And then there's me, sitting cross-legged behind Mom, hair in a sloppy bun perched precariously on my head, an exasperated but no less happy smile stretched across my own lips. There's wrapping everywhere and the camera had been wobbly on its stand so the picture is slightly askew. We are all in our pajamas.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I've handled my journal countless times in the past weeks, reading to Daryl, to myself, and never have I spared a glance at these pictures. Sometimes it was purposeful, forcing my eyes away; sometimes it was accidental, caught up in the bet I had with Daryl. Either way…this is the first time I've actually sat down and…really done this. Thought about them. My friends. My family. I shouldn't be doing this now. Today is going to be the most demanding day that I've had in weeks. I need to be firing on all cylinders. I need to be focused, alert, undistracted. My life, and the lives of others, will depend on it. But…I need this. I need it like air and I didn't even know it until I was laying here, in the dark, straddling the edge of this day, Atlanta looming in the distance, calling.

Really, I can't even begin to explain all the reasons I needed to do this. Gaze at these pictures, memories captured on film, in ink. Maybe it has something to do with all the shit that happened yesterday. The fighting and the yelling and the running. It probably has something to do with today, Glenn and Atlanta and walkers. I don't really want to think about it. Any of it. All I want, for just a few seconds more, is to look at these pictures and not think, just remember.

But of course, I can't always get what I want. I rarely do. And because of that law that is almost as absolute as any of the laws of physics, the second that I try to lose myself, turn my brain off for just mere minutes, I hear the low baritone of Shane's voice call something out, not loud enough to be a shout but enough to be heard. The sound, after so much silence, makes me blink and look up and I realize that the tent isn't as dark as it used to be. There's a pale, grey light seeping in through the mesh window that Abby had left half bared on her side of the tent and slowly but surely, I begin to hear the stirrings of birds in the trees and the occasional snatch of voice as people start to wake and face the day.

Dawn's already here. And I have no time left.

"Shit," I hiss to no one. I still need to take a shower and pack a few supplies, get ready for the ride into Atlanta. That's not to mention how I need to sort out the details with Glenn, see who I'm riding with, what cars we are taking etc. We had talked about it last night but I need to make sure before we leave. Fuck. And here I've been, sitting in the dark, for hours. I really need to get it together. There is no room for mistakes or distractions today. Too many people depend on all of us being on top of our game.

Reluctantly, I soak in Irina's laughing face, Manny's grin, and Mom's glinting eyes for a second more before I clench my eyes shut and press the picture to my lips. My mouth trembles and my arm shakes and my breathing is anything except steady but I only let myself stay like that for the barest of instants. Then I'm tucking the photo, along with the six other ones, back into my journal and sliding the thick book back into the pocket I had found it in. I don't spare my hiking pack another glance; instead I shuffle forward as quietly as I can and grab blindly at the pile of clean clothes at the foot of my bed.

"_Finish the tasks laid out before you; finish them and once you are done, then take the time to let the tears flow. But not before Audrey. Never before." _

Sensei's words echo through my head as clearly as if he had said them right beside me. I purse my lips and nod absentmindedly, pushing everything down and locking it somewhere deep. I have things to do. Things to do and places to be and tasks to complete. Whatever strength I had thought to take from these pictures, these memories, if I thought to take any at all, I need to take with me now. Atlanta waits.

Taking a deep breath, I reach back next to my hiking pack and grab the katana and tanto, pulling it across my back as I stand in the weak dawn light filtering into the tent. It's too late to run down to the quarry for a shower but I should be able to use that tarp and bucket deal Shane and Glenn had rigged up a few weeks ago. (2)

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later and I'm standing at the ashes of the campfire, foot propped up on a stray crate turned chair as I tie my shoes. The thin white strings are frayed and dirty but they have enough length and strength left to them that I'm able to do the smallest of double knots.<p>

"You know…I think you'd get better support if you strap blocks of wood to your feet and bind them with duck tape." The teasing words come from above my head and I don't need to look to see who has come up to me in the growing light of this upcoming day.

Tugging definitively on the last knot, I straighten up and come face to face with a faintly smirking Amy, her face pinched at the corners and two shades paler than usual. There are purple half moons under her eyes, lavender and puffy. The whites of her eyes are red, the rims an irritated, bloodshot, pink. I wonder if she got any sleep last night. I wonder if I look the same or worse.

"Morning to you too Amy," I smile. It comes out a little more subdued than I wanted. "And don't diss my shoes. The holes make it easier to run. Extra ventilation and everything."

Amy cocks an unconvinced eyebrow at my ratty black Converse. "Mmhmm. Sure. We'll go with that."

Smiling a little wider, a little easier, I let my foot slide to the ground and turn to sit on the crate instead. The plastic squeaks slightly at the added weight but I brace my feet on the dirt to keep my balance. "Ok yeah they are pretty shitty," I admit, kicking a spare rock at my friend as she moves to sit beside me, all but collapsing in the foldable camping chair. "But if they can stay on my feet and at least have something resembling a sole, then I'm all good."

"You have pretty low standards," Amy says, flopping her head to the side, squinting at me in the dawning sunlight.

I shrug and drop my eyes to my feet, glimpsing flashes of my blue ankle socks through the multiple tears my worn shoes had acquired in the last few months. They had already been on the decline before I left Dalton. Now…they are seriously on their last leg. "We live in pretty low times." I didn't mean to say something so morbid and serious but…it's the truth.

Amy hums in agreement, unflinchingly, but doesn't say anything else. For the next few minutes, the two of us sit in silence, watching detachedly as people walk to and fro across camp, finalizing last minute details, crossing the t's and dotting the i's. I see Glenn standing next to Mr. St James' truck, which he had pulled up close to the RV a few minutes ago. He has a map spread out across the hood and is hunched over it, Shane craning to look over his right shoulder and Morales on his left. The three of them are talking in low tones and they all look more than a little worried, gesturing sharply with their hands. I bite my lip and try to quell the nervous feeling bubbling in my stomach. Glenn's done this a shit load of times. He knows what he's doing. Everything will be fine.

Something suddenly brushes against the side of my head and I jerk away from the unexpected feeling. I turn my head to see Amy grinning slightly at me, her hand half raised in the air, her fingertips gleaming wet. I send her a look of confusion and she laughs shortly, flicking specks of water in my face.

"What?" she asks, blue eyes teasing. "Did ya run down to the quarry for an early morning skinny dip?"

Suddenly realizing she's talking about my wet hair, I laugh and tug a still dripping strand in front of my face. I wrinkle my nose as water drips steadily off the end. "Oh yeah. Me and Glenn had loads of fun. I think I left my bra somewhere on the shore." Amy rolls her eyes and shoves me gently and I grin cheekily in response. "Ok, ok. Just kidding. Truthfully, I just took a quick shower at the tarp and bucket deal Shane made."

The look I get is one of abject skepticism and I nod in understanding. "Yeah I know. I was for sure the thing was gonna collapse on me at any moment and leave me buck naked right out in the open. However, desperate times and all that. Anyway, I survived the ordeal but I don't think I'm going to be using our "shower" again any time soon."

Snorting, Amy shakes her head. "No crap," she mutters and I see her eyes dart over to the blue plastic sheet thirty yards away that I had been standing behind not ten minutes ago. I follow her gaze and frown. While the gesture was nice, Shane really isn't an architect. The thing is really a piece of shit.

"Hey Dree?"

Blinking, I tear my eyes away from the haphazard shower and turn to Amy again. "Yeah?"

Something about the tone of her voice sets my teeth abruptly on edge and when I finally face her, Amy has her head tilted down, chin tucked into her chest so I can see nothing but her profile. Her hand flutters up for a second, swiftly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and she sighs sharply. When she lifts her head a few moments later, she meets my eyes for only a fraction of an instant before her gaze skitters away, alighting on something over my shoulder. This can be nothing good. My brow furrows and I open my mouth to say something but she beats me to the punch.

"Feels like it's going to be hot as hell today huh?" she abruptly asks. I'm bewildered by the off the wall question but I slowly nod all the same, mouth answering on default.

"Um…yeah. It's summer. In Georgia. Everyday is pretty much as hot as hell."

Amy bites her lower lip and nods but her eyes look unfocused, like she really isn't listening to me. I keep my mouth shut as I let her think because something tells me she isn't done talking. I shift uncomfortably in my makeshift seat, feeling awkward in my own skin. As the silence lengthens, I become acutely aware of the beads of water trailing down the back of my neck, the wet pieces of hair stuck to the sides of my jaw, the heavy, humid heat encasing my head. It's uncomfortable and after a few minutes of fidgeting I'm about to reach up and do something about my unruly hair, ring it out, put it up, _anything, _when Amy speaks up again.

"Just be careful alright? Don't…don't do anything stupid."

I freeze at her whispered words, hands half raised in the air to pry my hair off the nape of my neck. I'm blinking stupidly, just staring at Amy, and she slowly shifts her eyes back to mine. I don't know if it's the shadowed bruises below them or the pale cast of her face but Amy's eyes look stark in comparison. Their pale blue almost glows, translucent, and I can see through them clear as glass. I can see the fear and the anxiety and the stomach churning worry burn in her crystal irises and I suddenly realize that…even if I'm the one going into the city, Amy's the one that's running the risk of losing everything. I hadn't thought about this before, not yesterday, last night, or this morning but…both her sister and her only friends are about to walk into the lion's den. If something goes wrong…Amy's all alone.

Holy shit, and if I don't know that feeling.

Swallowing past the knot in my throat, I do my best to smile reassuringly at her. I'm positive that it comes across as a facial spasm at best. "Stupid? Me? Come on Amy. You know me."

Amy chuckles and the sound is watery and wavering. Her eyes are soft and wet. "Yeah I know. That's what worries me," she jokes. I poke my tongue out at her and she wrinkles her nose in response. The two of us hold our respective expressions for a few minutes before the moment passes.

"But no…seriously," I tell her, smile sliding off my features as I become more somber. I straighten up and look Amy dead in the eye. "Everything's going to be fine."

Amy shakes her head and I think I see her lip tremble. "You don't know that," she whispers, honest to God scared, and ok…I don't. A shit load of things could go wrong. But…I'll be _**damned**_ if I let Amy lose not only her friends, but also the only family she has left. I'm not going to let her down like that. I'm not failing another person I care about and even if I've only known Amy a few weeks, I care about her a lot. Too much probably. Can't help it though. Don't think I want to. These few connections I have with these people are the only things keeping me human. Without them…I don't want to think about the alternative.

Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth to tell Amy all of this, that no, I can't tell the future but I would try my fucking hardest and then some to make it back to camp, everyone else and supplies in tow. Even if Amy is older than me, technically, I still have this overwhelming urge to protect her, like I do with Carl and Sophia and Morales' children. It more than likely has something to do with how innocent Amy is, how fresh faced and doe eyed and unused to all this fucking pain and violence and horror. I mean, she still fucking loves mermaids and unicorns for Christ's sake! Someone like her…I just want to shield her. Shield her from all the shit I had to endure: losing a friend, losing family. And even if she already went through this, already lost some of the innocence behind her eyes, I want to protect what little she has left because damn it all if she doesn't remind me of Annie Marie.

But as I think of what to say…I realize no platitudes would really work. _Everything will be fine. I promise. There is no need to worry. _Such utter bullshit. I feel hypocritical for using them before. They sound pointless and insincere, like lies. And I don't want to lie to Amy. Not again.

_**Again**_…I blink as I think of that word and suddenly…I know what I'm going to say.

The image of crystalline blue eyes, clear as ice and just as dangerous, flashes in my mind's eye I but I push it away and clear my throat, drumming up as much courage as I can.

The words stick in my throat for a second before they tumble out, head over heels and into the dirt. "Did you know that I was trying to reach Atlanta before I came here?" I'm still looking into Amy's eyes so I see the exact moment when the fear and worry in them shifts to confusion, like a filter being taken out and replaced.

"What?"

I nod and absentmindedly start picking at my nails, tearing the dead skin of my cuticles, the hangnails in the corners. "Yeah. When um…when everything went to shit…Dalton, where I'm from, was overrun and people were fleeing," I say. My heartbeat picks up as I distantly hear the echoes of screams and shattering glass, the smell of smoke and the heat of spreading flames. "Dalton is…_was_ a pretty small city. I didn't think that the government would have bothered with us. But…we were near the border and the state was trying to quarantine Georgia, keep outside infection _out _and deal with what was within our own borders. So, they send a pretty substantial amount of the National Guard to Dalton. Everyone thought were we saved."

I swallow harshly and exhale a shaky breath. Amy frowns at me and there is understanding in the lines of her face as she reaches out her hand and says, "Audrey…you don't have to—"

"No," I say and shake my head. I try to smile at her. "It's ok. I…I want to." And, on some level, I do. I haven't told anyone this. It…it feels good to talk to someone and even if it's partially out of guilt, Amy still deserves for me to trust her with something and _show _her that I do. Amy's still frowning and doesn't look at all convinced but she relents anyway, drawing back into her seat.

"So, as I was saying," I continue and I suddenly have this urge to just get everything _out_. "National Guard got there and the city thought we were safe now. Except, when the outbreak really hit us, the Guard just became more bodies to turn, more walkers to fight. Within a week, we were completely overrun."

Amy makes some kind of chocked noise in the back of her throat but I press on, unable to stop. "There...that was still when the broadcasts were going out. Do you remember them? They were all that was being played on the radio at that point and they were the last things the television had shown before they went out. _This is an emergency broadcast. Attention all citizens. The governor has declared Atlanta a safe zone. A refugee center has been built within the city. There is food, shelter, free of infection. It is open to all citizens. Upon admittance, you will be subject to medical examinations. There are no exceptions." _I laugh dryly as I repeat the words. "I can still hear that one newscaster's voice ya know? Kind of ingrained in my skull. Well, when things got really bad, I decided to head towards Atlanta. Dalton was done and I had no other alternative so…I started walking."

"Walking?" Amy sputters suddenly. I blink and look up at her, see how her eyes are wide and huge, mouth open with incredibility. "But…but that's like…100 miles!"

"Eh…it's more like 80."

Amy doesn't seem to care for those 20 miles because she looks like I just told her I swam across the Atlantic. "How…how did you walk that far?" She's on the edge of her seat by this point and I've barely even told her anything, just the generalizations of where I came from.

I shrug at her question. "Put one foot in front of the other. I…I contemplated driving but…I didn't have a car. I probably could have stolen one but it's not like I know how to hotwire and what was the point? Most of the roads by this time were gridlocked with abandoned traffic. Walking was really the only option I had left."

"Why didn't you catch a ride? A lot of people were heading to Atlanta at that time. Andrea and I were when Dale picked us up months ago." It doesn't go unnoticed about how she doesn't ask about my family, why I was alone when I started walking. I'm more than a little grateful for that.

Laughing, I drag a hand through my hair, finding it still wet and remembering how I had planned to put it up and out of the way. I pull the wayward strands into a bunch at the back at my head and grope for the thin rubber band on my wrist as I look up at Amy through my lashes. "Well sadly enough, I didn't see any genial old men with Winnebagos in my travels. I wasn't about to jump into a car with some random stranger, especially a man. I may be dense but I'm not completely stupid. And most families weren't looking to help a wayward teen out. They were getting the hell outta Dodge, clinging to what loved ones they had left."

Amy has the decency to blush and look sheepish. "Sorry," she mutters and I wave her off.

"It's fine. I mean, I more than likely could have gotten safe passage for only a few 'favors' but…I'm not that type of girl I guess. So, I walked. I stayed mostly to small back roads and the woods, kept as far away from towns and cities as I possibly could. It was a bitch; let me tell you. I have got possibly the _worst _sense of direction in the world, even with a map. And, few days after I left Dalton, I went and sprained my ankle."

Sticking my leg out, I roll my right ankle, feeling a familiar twinge that never really went away. Amy gazes down at it like she expects the bone to be sticking out. "What happened?" she asks quietly, enthralled.

I scoff in derision and drop my foot back to the dirt. "Fell out of a tree my fifth night. I had decided early on that I couldn't sleep just out in the open unless I wanted to be…yeah. So, trees were the best option. Uncomfortable, but safe."

Even though she looks a little green, Amy lifts her head and smirks faintly at me. "I can see how you scaled that tree so fast yesterday now," she teases and I blush slightly, shrugging.

"Yeah, well the funny thing is I hadn't climbed a tree before then since I was like 6. Was **way** out of practice. Took me a few tries to even get _on _a branch that first night and I barely slept. I barely slept for that first week to be honest but by night five I was so exhausted, the moment I got high enough to be out of reach, I passed out. It was the first time I had truly slept since I started walking which means, of course, I had to go and roll out of the tree in the middle of the night."

Amy winces. "Was it bad?"

I nod. "Bad enough. I was lucky I didn't break it, or my neck now that I think about it. But a sprained ankle was difficult enough. Made walking _that _much harder and climbing a tree every night almost impossible. That's why it took me so long to reach this area. I walked as slow as a grandma and had to stop frequently to rest. I kept going though, had to. I just remember I kept praying that I wouldn't run into any walkers because…I didn't think I could get away."

The word **walker **tastes bitter and disgusting in my mouth and Amy goes pale as I say it. "Did you? Meet any w…walkers that is," she asks. I can tell that she is more than a little uncomfortable by now but this is the most I've ever talked about my past with her and she's eating it up like a starving man would a buffet. Even if it's nothing _extremely _personal, like about my family or my life **before, **it's something and apparently Amy will take what she can get.

I shift through my memories to answer her question. I don't have to look very far. "A fair few," I respond. "Just loners in the beginning, spread out over the days. One here, another there. I managed to avoid them most of the time. Heard them coming or saw them before they saw me. Sometimes though…I couldn't skate by and that's when I had to fight."

As if drawn by magnets, Amy's eyes drop to the katana and tanto at my feet, the scabbards gleaming dully in the faint light. "So…so you've killed some then?" she whispers and I nod, simultaneously proud and disturbed with myself.

"One on one, they aren't that hard to stop, especially if I know they are coming. It's nerve racking as hell, scares me shitless, but if I can keep a level head, all I have to do is draw my blade and with one slash, it's done. The first time though…it was really hard. No one really knew what was going on yet and…in the beginning they still look human you know?"

That sentence comes out sounding guilty, more than I want to admit as I remember the first time I had to draw my sword, the first time I had to actually _use _it, not just fucking go through drills with it, sparring with no intent other than to spar. The first time was three days before the city burned. Sensei had made me start carrying my blades for over a week at that point, protection he had said. I didn't know protection from what. Everything was still new; I had never even seen a walker at that point. It was just word of mouth and TV programs that had so much scientific mumbo jumbo, no one really knew what was going on. And since the government was keeping everything as quiet as they could, we really had little to go on. All I knew was something bad was happening; people were being attacked and killed. My family...we were staying inside by this point. The only time I left was to go check on Sensei down the street. Which…is when Mr. Blake found me. It was just around sunset. I had tried to leave earlier but Sensei and I had got to talking and lost track of time. When we realized how late it was, Sensei had insisted on walking me home, all but shoving me out the door with him right beside me. His house was on the end of my street and there were only six houses between us and there was still plenty of light outside but Sensei had one hand on my back the whole way and we were almost running.

Mr. Blake was my neighbor to the right. He was some executive businessman for some company in town. He was single and quickly becoming rich, had just bought a brand new car, a sporty number all sleek and silver. I don't think I ever said more than twenty words to the man over the years since he really didn't like children, had yelled at Manny when he had followed a ball into his yard. Which is why I even looked up when I saw him stumble out of his house as Sensei and I drew close. At first, I didn't even realize it. Mr. Blake was dressed in a suit, just like he always did, and I had thought the red streak down his chest was that crimson tie he liked to wear. It wasn't until he got closer that I noticed how dirty his suit was, how disheveled he looked, and that the red on his shirt wasn't a slim tie but a wide pool of drying blood. I had stopped dead at the sight, eyes wide and not breathing. Sensei had turned to me to ask me what was what was wrong but then he caught sight of Mr. Blake and he froze too. It was when the too of us had been standing there like deer caught in headlights that Mr. Blake saw us and began to stumble closer. I finally saw that his eyes were rheumy and bloodshot, wide and unblinking. There was blood around his gaping mouth, on his lips that were split to issue forth moans, and a chunk of skin was missing from the side of his neck. That's where the blood on his shirt had come from I had distantly realized. I just stood there staring for I don't know how long but Sensei was suddenly shoving me forward, telling me to sprint for the house and to not look back. I had whirled on him, confused, disoriented, because what was happening, why did Mr. Blake look like this and what was Sensei going to do, he had left his swords at home and the TV said attacks could get vicious. But Sensei hadn't let me question, just shoved me again and told me to run, run as fast as I could. I still didn't understand but he was my Sensei and I had spent the last eight years of my life listening to him so I just immediately did as he said. I made it as far as my sidewalk before I heard Sensei shout.

Heart hammering, I spun around just in time to see Mr. Blake grab the ends of my hair and yank. I screamed and fell towards him, unbalanced. It was pure instinct that made me reach for my katana at the last second, and years of ingrained training to yank it out and lash out with it, feeling the blade bite into flesh. The feeling made me gag but Mr. Blake didn't stop. Not even when his arm fell to the ground, still grasping strands of my hair. He just kept coming at me, moaning how they do, not even fazed by his missing limb. I had scrambled back, trying to get away, but he kept coming and I remembered how the TV said the "infected" people, the ones with this weird form of rabies one "expert" had said, didn't stop attacking until they were dead. The thought had made me almost black out because I couldn't _kill _Mr. Blake! He was my neighbor! He was a human fucking being!

In the end, I didn't have to. When I had cut Mr. Blake's arm off, I had dropped the katana in surprise and, in my haste to get away, left it on the ground. Sensei had picked it up and, just as I tripped and fell on my ass, he slashed out and caught Mr. Blake on the side of the head, just as he reached me. The top half of Mr. Blake's head went flying to the right and the rest of his body slumped forward, nearly landing on my feet. I really did black out then, watching Mr. Blake's blood soak through my shoes, and when I woke up I was lying on my couch and Sensei was standing over me, telling my mother to start packing. We were leaving in the morning.

"That's horrible," Amy suddenly says and when I look up, see her face, the sadness and the nausea, I realize with a jolt that I had said that entire story out loud. My face flushes with color, tips of my ears burning scarlet because I hadn't meant to. It's not that I didn't _want _Amy to know that particular memory I was just…caught unawares. I clear my throat and rub at the back of my neck. Where was I?

"Uh…yeah. It was. But I learned pretty quickly how to defend myself," I mutter, trying to change the topic back to my previous line of discussion. "And, as I said, they only found me one at a time in the beginning. It wasn't until about two weeks later, when I finally could put pressure on my foot again, that I started to run into larger numbers, pairs and small groups. I really tried to avoid them. Groups are harder to fight."

Amy nods like she's taking my words to heart, like she's mentally writing down what I'm telling her and storing the information for later. "But apparently nothing you couldn't handle," she says, going for light but the words jump an octave as she says them. I smile weakly and shrug again, not knowing what to say.

For a second, Amy is quiet, seemingly taking in all I have said, but then she bites her lip and looks at me expectantly. "Then what happened?" she questions and I purse my lips as I think of how to respond.

"Then I kept going. I did my best to walk a straight line but more often than not, I went in circles, completely wrong directions for miles and hours. I scavenged what little food I could from abandoned cars and sometimes went out of my way to find creeks and rivers for water. My ankle was still healing too so it took longer, way fucking longer than it should have, but I finally drew close to Atlanta. Or I thought I was close. Turns out, I completely went _**around **_the city because before I knew it, I was standing in front of this sign that said _Welcome to East Point!" _

Amy's delicate eyebrows draw together as her brow furrows, her lips tightening around the corners as her eyes narrow. "East Point?" she repeats, her voice colored with confusion. "But…that's—"

"South of Atlanta," I finish for her with a nod. "I know. I told you. _Worst _sense of direction."

A laugh of disbelief bubbles out of Amy's mouth and I roll my eyes at her. "Yeah you laugh now but I was fucking _pissed _when I figured out what I did. I had just run out of food that morning and was nearly empty on water. Backtracking to Atlanta was not on my desire list."

Still grinning slightly, Amy does her best to look contrite. "Sorry, sorry. That's…that's messed up. What did you do?"

"What could I do? I sucked it up and slipped back into the woods, did my best to make good time so I could reach Atlanta before sundown."

"But you never did," Amy says and it's not a question.

I shake my head. "No, I didn't. Few hours later I'm stumbling through the woods, tired as shit, hungry, thirsty, when out of nowhere, I get fucking shot in the head by a damn crossbow."

And here is what I had been aiming to say in the first place, what I've been trying to get to. I did want to tell Amy something of my past, but this is really what I wanted to explain to her. Daryl. I know she's been wondering, dying to ask, and after how I treated her yesterday, when she showed how much of a friend _she _was, I feel obligated to tell her. But, more than that, I _want _to tell her. Because _I've _been dying, since yesterday when everything blew up in my face, to know if I had been wrong, to have done what I did. My instinct says that I'm not but…maybe I'm too close to the situation.

And, if this conversation serves to take not only Amy's mind but mine as well off of Atlanta well then hey. Two birds with one stone.

Amy hisses in a breath between her teeth and I watch as her eyes flick to my temple, tracing the short scar there. Absentmindedly, I reach up and do the same with my fingers, feeling the slightly raised, smooth, skin. "Hurt like a bitch just so you know. The tip is what dug the gash but the shaft is what made it burn like fucking hellfire."

Wincing, Amy meets my gaze. "When I first saw you, your whole shirt was _covered _in blood. It was just dripping down the side of your face, soaking that ruined white shirt you were wearing. I remember thinking 'I can't believe this girl is still conscious' with all the blood you were missing."

I laugh and shake my head. "You weren't too off. By that point, I was exhausted beyond all recognition. Daryl had fucking dragged me all across the Georgia woods to finish his hunt before he led me back here," I tell her and, even now, it kind of stings to say his name. I wonder if Amy saw my slight grimace. I certainly saw hers.

"I still don't understand," she says. Her blue eyes, almost like someone else's but not quite, pierce mine with their puzzled haze. "Why did you even follow Daryl? He had just freaking shot you! I would have run in the other direction."

"I tried! The second Daryl stepped out of the damn bushes I took one look at him, one look at his crossbow, and turned tail! The son of a bitch had just shot me, not to mention I'm a little wary of men carrying weapons since I'm only this small scrap of a girl and fighting some dude is _way _different than killing a walker."

"So," Amy says, propping an elbow on the armrest of her chair and dropping her chin into her palm. "How the hell did you end up here, in camp? Not that I'm not happy about it! I'm just…did you follow him? Like the ninja you are?"

I roll my eyes at her. "I'm not a ninja for the millionth time and no I didn't follow him," I tell her. "One, I wouldn't have followed a dude who just _shot at me. _Two, the way I was running, I wouldn't even know how to backtrack to where we had been to start following him. And three, he was the one that followed me."

Amy's eyes bug out of her head and if her hand weren't holding her jaw closed it would be in the dirt. "What?"

I nod. "It's true. There I was, fucking sprinting my ass off, trying to get as far away as possible as fast as I could, and just when I thought I was safe, he pops up in front of me, panting and gasping and telling me not to run off again."

The disbelief in Amy's face probably mirrored my own when I saw Daryl that day, though it's lacking the shock and abject terror. "Why would he do that? I mean chase you. Daryl…it doesn't seem like him."

Opening my mouth, I go to explain it to her when my brow furrows and I cock my head in realization. "I…you know? I still don't know. I've never asked him. Thanked him for it but…never asked him why he did it." In hindsight, I never even gave it more than a passing thought. Those first few days I just wanted to thank him and then after that…well there was too much shit between us, both good and bad, to remember. Now, I wish I had.

Amy's lips are pursed but she only hums in response and I keep going. "Anyway, I was wary of him in the beginning, naturally, but he lowered his crossbow first so I…I don't know. I just stayed there. We just kinda stood there for a minute but I said something about Atlanta eventually and then, in a round about Daryl way, he told me that the city had fallen, that there was no center left."

The memory still makes my knees feel weak and this indescribably _sorrow _well in me but I don't act on it as I did before. Just continued to tell my story, robotic as I could. "I…well I freaked. Started screaming and shit. Daryl told me to shut up, tried to keep me quiet because we had somehow ended up pretty close to the city, on the edge of the woods. But I was gone man. After everything…all I had been focused on was Atlanta. And now that was nothing. I couldn't control myself. When he realized he couldn't shut me up…Daryl started to leave."

Amy snorts. "That sounds more like him," she mutters and I smile faintly at that.

"Yeah it kinda does. But, before, Daryl had mentioned something about a camp. And with Atlanta gone…I called out to him. Amazingly, he stopped. And after a second, he offered to show me, if I didn't "lose my shit" again because he said he had no problem leaving my ass in the woods," I say, grinning around the memory.

"Just like that?" Amy frowns. "He just…offers and you accept?"

Smile fading, I shrug. "I think…maybe he felt sorry for me? I'm not sure. As I said, I never asked. As for me, it's not like I had a lot of options. I was out of food, out of water. I had no goal in sight and nothing behind me but corpses. Even if he turned out to be some psycho rapist, which he thankfully isn't, I had no alternative. I kept on guard, half ready to pull my sword at any moment but nothing happened. He dragged me along as he hunted for some food and then led me to camp. The rest…well you already know." Rolling my shoulders, I sit up a little straighter and wait for my friend to say something.

Amy looks at me strangely for a moment after I stop talking and I cock my head at her. "What?"

She looks a bit uncomfortable for an instant but she scoffs a little and shakes her head the slightest bit. "I'm…I'm glad you told me all this Dree," she says and I can sense a _but _coming along.

"But…"

Ah. There it is.

"I'm obviously missing something if that's the end of the story because none of that explains…_yesterday."_

I flinch at the reminder, though I had been working up to this, though I was the one to start the conversation. "Oh uh no. I just meant that you knew the rest of me coming into camp. I…I wasn't finished."

Amy blinks. "Oh. Well…sorry. Go on."

Nodding, I contemplate how to continue, what I'm going to tell Amy. It's not that I'm going to lie to her but…some of the details I want to keep to myself. They're…private ya know? Stuff between Daryl and I and no one else.

"Right um. Yesterday. Ok, well you heard how I've been hunting with Daryl before yes?"

Amy nods.

"Ok," I went on. "Well him bringing me to camp is kinda where it all starts. You see—"

"Oh my god," Amy interjects and I look up in confusion. "You…you're…" She motions vaguely with her hand, eyes wide and breathing fast, voice high. "With _**Daryl?" **_

It takes me a minute to realize what she's saying and when I do, I gasp and wave my hands frantically, face burning as I try to backpedal. "What? N…no! Of course not! I was going to say that's how I started hunting with him," I nearly screech. "I…no! Daryl and I just hunt together, that's all!"

Amy looks like she doesn't believe me for a second. Her eyes are feverish and she looks caught between a grin and a smirk. "Hunting," she says, air quoting the word. "Doesn't account for your reaction yesterday Dree." She's teasing me. Unashamedly. After everything, Amy is still a teenage girl and this has got to be the juiciest gossip she's had in a while. I can't help but think if she knows about Shane and Lori.

I blush from the roots of my hair to the ridges of my collarbone and scowl at my friend. "Ok, so he's kind of my friend. A little. Or was. But that's it! I swear."

Narrowing her eyes at me, Amy scrutinizes my expression, trying to catch me in a lie. I continue to scowl and stare back at her. I have nothing to hide. Daryl and I are…were…sorta friends. That's all. Nothing more. The man in like 30 for Christ sake's! And apparently hates me. And his brother wants to kill me. So no. Just…no.

When she decides I'm telling the truth, Amy sighs and props her chin up again. "You're not lying," she mumbles and I roll my eyes, still blushing fiery red.

"Sorry to disappoint you. Now, will you let me finish?"

She nods and waves her hand at me. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

I huff and try not to pout. "_Anyway. _As I was saying. Daryl bringing me to camp led me to hunting with him. And," I hold up a hand when Amy opens her mouth. "Before you jump to any crazy conclusions, it's because I went to thank him. A few days after I arrived here, I went to thank Daryl for basically saving my life. He was cleaning some kill he had brought back and I just…I don't know. I saw how hard he was working and no one was around helping him, Merle was probably off getting high, so I just…asked if I could help him. First time around, he basically told me to fuck off. Second time around, same thing. But after I had asked several times, and after he saw I was serious, he finally relented. So…we started hunting together. I'm not much help in tracking or killing but I usually clear the traps pretty easily and Daryl taught me how to clean and animal so I help with that too. It's fucking hard and tiring work but…it wasn't too bad."

Amy is frowning at me again, like I'm not speaking English. "But why?"

I furrow my brow at her. "Why what?"

"Why keep offering?" she asks. "Ok, the first time I get. He saved you; you're a saint, blah blah blah. But after he told you to get lost? Why ask again? And again? What's more, his personality can't be that charming for you to defend him like you did."

Her words make me blush again and I drop my eyes, fidgeting with my hands. Sophia had asked me this question not to long ago but…this is different. Amy's not a child. I can't give her a child's answer. "I…I don't know. I kind of felt indebted to him at first. He'd saved my life; I could help him skin a few things. Then I started thinking in survival terms. We all needed to eat and what would we do if…if something happened to Daryl? Depend on Merle? Didn't seem very appealing. And on top of all that…I just wanted to help. I'm a goody two shoes remember?"

"So let me get this straight. This guy shoots you in the head, ok saves you from walking into Atlanta, but is then a nothing but a freaking _dick _to you and the first thing you do is think '_I should help this guy and then befriend him!'_?"

I frown and reach up to tug on my hair, hand falling back into my lap when I remember my hair is up. "You make it sound so stupid," I mutter petulantly. "And I wasn't looking to befriend him at first. It just…sorta…happened."

"How?" Amy asks, tone firm and unwavering.

I groan and throw my hands up, frustrated and embarrassed but fuck, I asked for this. "It just kinda did. I'm not sure. He just taught me to skin and clean and he wasn't a total asshole when he was teaching me. And…I don't know. He's quiet most of the time and when's he's not 9 times out of 10 he's snapping or growling but…it's not that bad. I just kinda…got used to it. We hunt, we skin and clean and sometimes, we just sit with each other."

"Sit with each other?" Amy questions dubiously, eye brow raised.

I nod. "Yeah. We hang out."

"What do you _talk_ about?"

"We don't really…talk," I say, wrinkling my nose. "I think Daryl's allergic to it. We just…sit there sometimes, quietly. Sometimes he'll sharpen his knives or clean his crossbow. Sometimes I'll do the same to my katana or tanto. Nothing exciting or anything." I smile sheepishly and duck my head, tracing invisible patterns on my leg. "It's just…I find it relaxing to just sit there, not really do anything, not having to talk. It's calming."

Amy laughs shortly and I glance up at her through my lashes. She still looks slightly puzzled but there's a smile on her face as she says, "Relaxing and calming. Yeah, not two adjectives I'd use to describe Daryl Dixon."

I poke my tongue at her and reach out to shove her arm, grinning as she squawks in indignation. "Shut up," I mutter. "I'm like baring my soul here and you're making fun of me."

Raising her arms, Amy tries to glare at me but the effect is ruined by the way her lips keep twitching and she finally gives in, smiling. "Alright. Soooorry. I'm just trying to wrap my head around this…_thing. _Yesterday, I thought you didn't even know Daryl's name and here you are, BFFs with him," she laughs.

I scowl and cross my arms, sitting back on my crate. "We aren't best friends or anything…just…yeah. Anyway, so that's the reason I got upset yesterday."

"Because Shane didn't want you going off into the dark with Daryl and called your not really friend who you _don't _talk to a hillbilly? Come on Dree. Even I think Daryl's a redneck."

"_I said no. You aren't going out to the middle of nowhere with nothing but some backwoods hillbilly as your backup."_

The memory of Shane's words, the steel line of his jaw, disdain and determination in his eyes for Daryl and I respectively, brings the temperature of my blood almost to a boil. Amazing. Even after what Daryl said, it still pisses me off the way people view him. Like Amy now. I'm barely able to keep the edge out of my voice as I respond.

"Yeah but he's not fucking _trash. _I might not talk to him much but none of you guys even try," I accuse, remembering how everyone regarded Daryl like a wild animal, like something gross and disdainful, something to be reviled.

Amy blinks at the hostility in my tone and scoffs. "And can you blame us Dree?" she demands. "Daryl isn't actually approachable. I think his only words to me have been '_Git outta the freakin way!', _she says, dropping her voice and doing a mock impression of Daryl's drawl.

I sigh and drag a hand down my face. "I don't blame you it's just…ugh. It just upset me that Daryl's apparently good enough to bring you guys food, to keep you alive every fucking day, but he's not good enough to earn a little fucking trust." I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to quell the beginnings of a headache. "Yesterday, you all treated him like he was some damn rapist, like he was dragging me, kicking and screaming, by my hair into the woods. If he was really that kind of person, than why the fuck would he have even brought me here, to camp, in the first place? Why the fuck would he even hunt for the rest of us? Huh?"

Silence meets my rhetorical questions and I'm not really expecting Amy to answer but all of the sudden, there are cool fingers on my wrist, pulling on my arm, and when I look up, Amy's blue eyes meet mine head on. "Again Dree. Can you blame us? Carl comes running into camp screaming and babbles something about Daryl grabbing you and he looked pretty scared."

"He was just scared about me leaving," I mumble.

"But we didn't _know _that. The way Carl put it, we **did** think that Daryl was dragging you, kicking and screaming. And honestly, he doesn't have the greatest track record. He first brings you into camp, you're all bloody. Second time we see you together, you're bloody again. We were expecting blood when we arrived on the scene. Sorry but…circumstances were against him Dree."

I look into Amy's eyes, see the sincerity, see the apology, the regret and all my irritation bleeds out of me. I exhale slowly. "I…I know Amy but really? Do you think I would go off alone with someone that I thought would hurt me? And don't you think I could have defended myself if he tried? I beat Shane easily enough. I just…more than not trusting Daryl…I felt that you didn't trust _me _enough to not be that stupid."

Pursing her lips, Amy regards me for a second and then nods. "You're right. We didn't trust you. _I _didn't trust you and…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Or insult Daryl. It's just," she says and smiles faintly at me, shrugging with one shoulder. "You're my friend Dree and I care about you."

I find it funny, now that I'm thinking about it, that caring for someone usually results in the most fucked up situations. Amy cared about me, so she was ready to cast Daryl off out little Survivor Island. Shane cared, apparently, so he went to shoot Daryl in the face. I cared about my friendship with Daryl, so I lashed out, teeth and barbed words. I cared for the rest of camp, so I offered to help Daryl hunt in the first place. What's that saying again? The road to hell is paved with good intentions? Tch. No fucking shit.

"I care about you too Amy," I reply, placing my hand over her fingers that still grip my wrist. "And I'm sorry too. I overreacted yesterday. I was just frustrated and upset and Shane was kind of dredging up some bad memories but that is no excuse. So I apologize."

Amy blinks at the 'bad memories' part of my sentence, a question sparking in her eyes, but before she can ask it, before I can refuse to answer it, a voice over her shoulder interrupts.

"And I think it goes without saying that we forgive you," Glenn says as he comes up behind Amy, dropping into a squat beside her. The sun hasn't even fully breached the horizon yet but there are already beads of sweat standing out on Glenn's brow, sliding down the side of his neck. "I mean I'm a little sore from almost falling out of that tree but…" He trails off with a grin.

Doing my best to hide my own grin, I pull a face and cross my arms again. "Glenn, were you _eavesdropping? _Rude much?"

Glenn's grin widens and he nods, unrepentant. "Yes."

I roll my eyes but can't stop my smile anymore. "Jerk. But, while you're here, let me just formally apologize to you too. As you apparently heard, I was slightly out of line yesterday and I overreacted. So…sorry," I say.

Smiling, Glenn reaches out and nudges my knee. "I heard you and I said we forgive you. Forgive me?"

I nod without hesitation. "Good," he continues and Amy suddenly speaks up beside him.

"How long were you even listening Glenda?" she asks and Glenn makes a face at the moniker Amy has adopted for him when she's teasing. He shrugs and shifts so he's sitting on the ground, retying his own shoelaces. He's wearing converse too, beat up white ones, and damn they are almost as fucked up as mine.

"I don't know…around the time Audrey mentioned the broadcasts," he says nonchalantly and I gape at him, Amy shrieking indignantly.

"You've been listening the whole time?" She reaches out and smacks the bill of his cap. "_Jerk!_"

I laugh as Glenn throws his arms over his head and cowers. "Hey hey! No need to be violent! I came over to get Audrey but she was talking and I didn't want to interrupt! I was trying to be _nice," _he defends.

Amy's still muttering to herself about manners and privacy and 'girl talk' as I turn to Glenn with a confused smile. "What do you mean you were coming to get me?"

And just like that, the pleasant mood withers and dies. Glenn's smile slips off his face, Amy instantly goes quiet and I blink and stop grinning just as I realize the answer to my question.

"O…oh," I stutter, feeling vaguely colder than I did a split second ago. "Is it um…time?" It's like I've been doused in cold water, shoved unceremoniously into a tub of ice. I can't believe I forgot, even for a moment. Atlanta. The supply run. And here I was, shooting the shit with Amy for God knows how long. Jesus Christ. The last few minutes bleed from me, Dalton, Sensei, Daryl, and I'm left feeling hollow as Glenn swallows and nods.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Everything's ready. Just need to pile in."

I frown. "You could have come and gotten me earlier. I wanted to help."

Glenn shakes his head and looks up at me. "Nah. We were fine. You helped enough last night, hammering out the final details with me." Mentioning last night makes me remember what little sleep I got, that is _none, _and the energy I got from my cold shower dulls down a notch, lethargy creeping into my bones. I resist the urge to physically shake it off.

I'm not completely mollified by Glenn's response but I accept it nonetheless. "Alright. Well…I guess just tell me what car I'm going in and we'll leave."

"You're riding with me," he says. "In Mr. St. James' truck. Jacqui's riding with too."

I'm still surprised that Jacqui is going on the trip but Glenn says she used to be a city manager in Atlanta or something and could be useful if they needed some insider information. "Oh. Ok. Um…" I flail for a moment, not knowing what to do. I've been waiting for this moment since fucking yesterday and now that it's here, I'm lost. Turning to Amy at last, I do my best to give her an encouraging smile. "Guess we'll finish this later huh?"

Amy nods her head sharply and then, simultaneously, we stand up and her arms are tight around me before I can even blink. She squeezes as hard as she can, bony arms like iron bands around my lungs, and I hug her back just as hard. "You know we will. I still want all the juicy gossip about your secret forest trysts Dree. But…be careful yeah," Amy says and I choke out something to the affirmative. That feeling is back in my veins again, that urge to protect Amy, from pain and sadness, and it wars with the other feeling of protecting Sophia and Carl from hunger. For an countless eternal instant, the two desires battle with each other, go and hurt Amy, stay and hurt SophiaCarlElizaLouis, but, in the end, the former one wins. Drawing back, Amy gives me a shaky smile before she moves over to Glenn and gives him the same treatment. I don't think I imagine the wetness on her cheeks. When she's done with Glenn, Amy gives the two of us this inscrutable look, her brows pinched tightly and mouth pursed like she wants to say something, but she shakes her head at the last minute and waves at us quickly before running off to find her sister.

I watch her blonde hair bounce behind her as she jogs over to where Andrea is standing next to a green Toyota 4Runner who belongs to…actually I'm not even really sure. The older blonde turns at the sound of her name and then she too has an arm full of Amy and I look away before I see anything else, letting the two sisters have their moment.

The day is breaking around us, sky streaked with pinks and orange and yellows. The heat is beginning, muggy and smothering. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, seeing those pictures again, black and white smiles and the red of Christmas tinsel, of Mom's hair. I can do this. I _will _do this.

"So…Atlanta," I awkwardly start, turning to look at Glenn. The older boy blinks and then meets my gaze, rubbing at the back of his neck in unease.

"Yeah. Should be fun," he jokes, laughing nervously. I smile, despite myself.

"Somehow…I kind of doubt that."

* * *

><p>The goodbyes take longer than expected and are much more awkward than anticipated. Carl and Sophia hug me enthusiastically and make me <em>promise <em>to be careful and to come back safely. Though I feel like a hypocrite, I make those promises again and again. Abby gives me a quick clasp and a sad smile, like she expects me to break my promise to the kids no matter what. I try not to show it, but I move as quickly as I can away from her.

Jim gives me a quiet nod and Dale, though it looks like he tries to stop himself, hugs me tightly as well, drawing back with a stricken look etched into his face. At first, he tries to talk me out of my "ridiculous plan" but I quickly kill that line of thought, telling him that I'm going and that's all there is to it. He looks like he's going to argue till he's blue in the face but I move on before he can, promising to be careful as I walk over to Lori.

The brunette mother is standing with her arms crossed, a pinched look to her face, her blue eyes hard. When I tell her goodbye, her jaws ticks and she grinds out a short farewell, barely even looking me in the face. She tells me to watch out for myself and that she'll see me when I return. As she walks away, she gives me a motherly pat on the shoulder and a quicksilver, flat smile. She's gone before I can repeat the same lying promise, before I can even breathe to do so. I stare after her in confusion but Carol walks up next and I have to plaster on another fake smile.

Shane's the last person I talk to and he's almost as cold as Lori. He stands next to Mr. St James' truck, shotgun balanced on both shoulders and hands rested on it like he's in stocks. I smile at him and he tries to reciprocate, I can see that, but it comes out as a grimace and he quickly drops it. He tells me good luck and to remember what he said: to listen to Glenn and always stick close to Morales. He says I will be fine. I'm not sure if he is telling himself that or me. I nod and promise him that I would; another promise that I don't mean to but probably will end up breaking. Shane looks me one last time in the face, eyes blank but hard, and shakes his head as he calls out to Glenn, moving around me to finalize something.

"I wouldn't mind him," Andrea says, suddenly beside me. She nods her head at Shane, the former cop's back toward us as he talks to Glenn and T-Dog. "I heard him and the missus arguing earlier. Don't think he's getting any in a long while."

I blink in shock at the older woman, _she knew about that?,_ but she just winks at me as she ruffles my hair and walks away, out towards the 4Runner which is set behind the truck I'm leaning against since Glenn will be leading the way to the city. I cast another glance at Shane, eyes darting to Lori who is glaring at him out of the corner of her eye, twenty feet away, arms around Carl. Huh.

Five minutes later, the watch on my wrist declares 7:45 and we are finally starting to pile in the trucks. The people who are staying in camp make a solemn semi-circle near the RV, down cast faces with fake, hopeful smiles. No one likes this idea but they like the notion of starving even less so they wish us the best of luck. I'm just waving one last time at Amy, smiling my best, when a voice I _really _hadn't wanted to hear today grates upon my ears.

"How bout me get this damn show on the road already? This ain't fuckin Miss America!"

**Merle. **

Fuck. I haven't seen him since yesterday, flat on his ass in the dirt, the impression of Daryl's knuckles still livid on his cheek. I thought he wouldn't even be awake this morning, let alone show up. Seems like I'm wrong on both accounts. Grimacing at Merle's aggravated voice, I turn to find him, expecting him to be standing at the back of the group, near the RV, spouting his shit as usual.

What I don't expect is to see him leaning out the fucking _passenger seat of the 4runner, _rifle propped between his feet. _What…the….hell?_ As I continue to gape at him, he meets my eyes for a fraction of a second and leers, cocking the gun in his hands. His expression turns feral as he grins and licks his lips and then he turns to shout at Morales to get his "taco bender ass in the car."

No. Oh no. This isn't happening. Merle's just pulling some shit because this can't be real. No way in fucking hell is this real. Except…maybe it fucking is because Morales gives his wife one last kiss, his kids one last hug, and then he's rolling his eyes, moving over to the 4Runner and slipping into the driver's seat, not even sparing Merle a glance. In fact, no one spares Merle a glance. Not Andrea as she climbs into the seat behind him. Not T-Dog as he climbs in behind Morales. Not Jacqui as she makes her way towards the truck. Not even fucking _Shane, _saying one last thing to Glenn before the Asian makes his way towards me.

I feel like that kid in the Sixth Sense, seeing things no one else can and powerless to stop it.

Oh…my god. _ .God._ Merle is going on the supply run? _Merle _is going on the fucking supply run. _**Merle is going into the fucking city, locked and loaded and what the fuck!**_

"Merle is going?" I hiss out frantically, whirling on Glenn as he walks up. He blinks at me and then winces, expression pained and nauseous.

"Oh yeah," he says guiltily. "You weren't there for that. Um…when you were talking to Amy, Simon came up and backed out of the run. Said Rebecca wasn't comfortable with it. Apologized profusely but…he wasn't going."

Simon and Rebecca are this married couple, older, in their 40s. They are nice people, though I really don't talk to them much, and I like them. Rebecca had been a teacher before, college, and from what I gathered, fair but a hard ass. And Simon had been in the Army, fought in Kuwait back in the 90s. He was a pretty big guy, short haircut, big muscles, knew his way around most weapons. Which is precisely why Glenn and Shane had asked him to go on the run in the first place. I could wield a blade like nobody's business but I didn't know how to shoot a goddamn water gun and while Morales, T-Dog and Andrea _said _they could shoot good enough, Shane had wanted something a little more reassuring. Hence, Simon, who could shoot a rubber band and make it dangerous.

But Simon backed out. Apparently. Shitty luck but what the hell were people thinking using _Merle _as a replacement?

Looking at Glenn like he's grown a second head, I gesture vaguely at the 4Runner behind us, too keyed up to be discreet. "So you turned to _Merle Dixon _as a Plan B?" I'm trying to keep my voice low but it ends up coming out high and reedy, vocal chords taunt in distress. Glenn sighs and looks over my shoulder, presumably at Merle, and winces again.

"No," he says, scrubbing at one eye as it twitches in anxiety. I'd feel sorry for Glenn if he wasn't trying to kill us all here by inviting the All America Psycho on our life or death expedition here. "When Simon backed out, I was just going to go without him. It wasn't ideal but I thought between Morales, T-Dog, Andrea and _you, _we'd be fine. **Shane **thought otherwise."

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline, jaw flapping open. "_**Shane **_suggested Merle?"

"Not…exactly. He suggested we convince Simon to reconsider but he told us that sorry, he just wasn't. As we were all but begging him, Merle came up out of nowhere and offered his 'services.' Shane kindly refused but Merle was like a dog with a bone. Brought up the fact that none of us 'city folk' knew how to shoot our way out of a wet paper bag; that we'd be dead before we even scavenged a can of beans. After bragging about _his _firearm prowess, well…Shane relented."

I blink at Glenn, waiting for the punch line, the grin, the _April Fools! _But this isn't a joke, Glenn isn't laughing, and it's the middle of sweltering June. I can't believe it. This is some _Twilight Zone _shit. Because in what realm, **what reality, **would Shane agree to this? I mean, I'm sure Glenn left out some details, summarizing to save time, but regardless! Yesterday, Shane practically threw a bitch fit when Daryl was concerned and then today he turns around and shoves _Merle _at us? Daryl might be a snappish dick at the best of times, but he's not his brother. Merle…I'm frankly surprised he hasn't gone postal in camp, killed us all, and ate us. And I know Shane thinks along the same lines. So what the fucking _hell _is he thinking now? Is he _trying _to get us all killed? I try to find Shane, ask these questions with my eyes, demand some answers, but when I finally spot him, he's propped up against the RV, eyes locked on the 4Runner, burning holes through metal and glass, right into the back of Merle's head. He has his arms crossed irately in front of him and his jaw is clenched so tight I imagine I can hear the grinding of his teeth all the way over here. Carl is tugging at his shirt, trying to get his attention, but Shane doesn't even acknowledge him, face closed off and looking more pissed than I have any memory of and yesterday, he had been pretty fucking angry.

And that's when I realize that maybe it's not that Shane doesn't know the danger Merle presents…it's that he _**does **_know, knows all to well, but can't do anything to stop it. There are no alternatives. Breakfast this morning had consisted of water, no meat, and I believe the last can of beans. This trip _has _to be a success or _everyone_ is basically fucked. The hell with the walkers; we'll all succumb to starvation. Shane doesn't like it, not one bit, trusts Merle about as far as he could throw him which isn't far at all, but he's banking on Merle to think twice before causing shit in the city, to consider how his _own _survival banks on the success of this trip. On anyone else, this would be a logical, predictable, assumption.

But this is Merle fucking Dixon. And he's about as logical and predictable as a faulty atomic bomb.

All of the sudden, Shane looks up and meets my gaze and I see in his eyes the same thoughts that I have running through my skull. His brown eyes bore into mine for one, beat, two, flicker over to Merle again and then back. '_I'm sorry. Be careful,' _they seem to say and I know he isn't talking about the walkers. I like this less than Shane, Merle hasn't threatened to kill _him_ after all, but, as I said, there are no alternatives. This trip still needs to happen, we still need food, and I need to be there to help. This isn't just about Merle or me; it's about _all _of us. So, even if it leaves a sour taste in the back of my throat and a ball of nausea inducing anxiety in the pit of my stomach, I need to suck this shit up and move on. Feeling vaguely sick and dizzy, I meet Shane's gaze and give him an almost imperceptible nod. '_I'll do my best," _I try to tell him and the way his lips purse, I know he understands.

Then Glenn's arm is at my elbow, tentative and questioning, fingers smooth and uncalloused.

"Audrey?" he asks worriedly. I tear my eyes away from Shane, don't give Merle another glance, and meet Glenn's concerned brown orbs. I try to look stronger than I feel.

"Yeah sorry," I say and flash a quick grin, frail and weak. "Um…just forget I said anything. We're wasting the day here. Let's uh…let's just get going."

Glenn frowns at me. "Audrey…" he starts again but I wave him off and grope behind me for the truck's door handle. I find the slightly rusted metal and give a sharp pull, listening detachedly as the old door creaks loudly as it opens.

"It's fine. Really. Come on. We're already behind schedule."

Not waiting for a response, I turn around, shrug off my backpack and katana, and slip into the passenger seat, scooting all the way into the middle so Jacqui, who has just walked up, can slip in behind me. Glenn continues to stand at the passenger side door, brow furrowed and frowning but then Jacqui calls his name, asks if he's ok, and he blinks out of his stupor. Shaking his head, he mutters something to the older woman and closes her door gently before jogging over to the driver's side and jumping in. He casts me a loaded look but starts the engine nonetheless, throwing the gearshift into drive and easing off the brake. As we begin to roll down the road, I turn around one last time, looking for Amy, Carl, Sophia, but the second I look back, Merle meets my gaze through distance and glass and smiles at me, nice and slow. The effect reminds me of a predator's snarl, bared teeth and lethal promises. My skin crawls and I whip back around, tightening my grip on the katana braced between my legs.

"You all right sweetie?" Jacqui asks beside me, laying a warm, comforting palm on my knee.

I give her a hasty nod and tight-lipped smile in return, turning to stare straight out the windshield, seeing the hazy skyline of Atlanta in the light of a new morning.

We are on the edge of starvation; we are past the end of the world. My…family is gone, my friends along with them. I have a journal left, some pictures and the few people around me whom I have quickly come to care about. I'm going into the city to help save them, to save Sophia and Carl, Amy, Glenn. I'm going so I don't fail another friend, like I failed Annie Marie, Mathias…Kaleigh and, in a way, Daryl. I'm putting my brave face on and trying to summon up the old Audrey, the new Audrey, whoever she is, the parts of me that feel no fear, that can face the devil and fucking laugh saying **bring it on. **

Because, I won't say it, won't breath it out into the open air, won't admit it anywhere other than in my own brain but…I'm fucking scared. Scared of the hunger I feel clawing in my belly. Scared of the city we are driving to; the walkers, the almost imminent death, brought on by teeth and nails and ear shattering moans. I'm scared of what lies ahead.

But…I'm also scared of what lies behind. I glance up and in the rearview mirror I see the green 4Runner bounce along the dirt road behind us as we wind down the mountain. There's too much dirt being kicked up in the air so I can't see through the windshield but I don't have to. I know who's in there.

"_I catch you with him again, sugar tits, I'll cut yer throat nice and slow and be outta here 'fore yer lil lap dog cop can do shit 'bout it."_

We are on the edge of starvation; we are past the end of the world. The dead no longer stay that way and, with one bite, one scratch, we can join them. The walking dead. And here we are, running towards them with open arms, pushed along by desperation. And yet, even now, it is not the dead that scare me the most. It's the living. Because out of every creation under the sun, everything that creeps and crawls and roars, nothing, _nothing, _is as dangerous as man. Especially a man with nothing left to lose and nothing to keep him in place.

I'm scared of Merle Dixon and, even though I hope my fear in unwarranted, I have a feeling it won't be.

* * *

><p>It takes us almost a half an hour to reach the city. Simultaneously, it feels like an eternity has passed and that I have barely blinked before we are driving down the main highway that leads right into Atlanta.<p>

Swallowing past the knot in my throat, I look out of Glenn's window, to my left, taking in the bumper to bumper packed four lanes that Atlanta's citizens had tried to take to escape. They barely even made it out of the city. We passed a blockade a few miles back. The city had been quarantined at some point. Nothing was supposed to get out. Needless to say, that plan obviously failed. As I squint against the morning sun, I think I see the shape of a body, wedged between two cars, but I turn my head away quickly, staring resolutely ahead. Don't think about it Audrey. Don't think about it.

Out of the corner of my eye, Jacqui has gone ashy and silent, the back of her wrist pressed against her lips. A single tear trickles down her cheek and I drop my eyes to my lap instead, clenching my fingers around the familiar hilt of my tanto.

A crackle of static fills the cabin of the truck and I turn to see Glenn lifting the walky-talky to his lips, right hand clenched on the wheel as we ease into the shadow of Atlanta. "The department store is ten minutes in," he says into the speaker, eyes hard and back rigid. "We're going to be taking a back route because there's a tank about a mile ahead that's blocking this road. We won't be able to pull right up to the store so we are gonna have to leave the trucks half a block over."

He lets go of the button and a few seconds later, there's a blast of static and Morales replies, "Alright. Just lead the way Glenn."

Glenn nods, even though Morales can't see him, and sets the walky-talky back in his lap. Sure enough, about two minutes later, we come across a tank that's flipped over on its side, charred and with holes blown in it. Bodies, of the unmoving variety, pile against its underbelly, drape over the missile launcher, the wheels, lay scattered across the road. Bile rises in the back of my throat but I force myself to not look away. The whole city will look like this and worst. I can't ignore it and I can't let it affect me.

As Glenn turns to the right, just before we reach the tank, a random snatch of words flickers across my mind, disjointed and unattached to a particular memory. "The way is shut," I murmur under my breath, craning my neck slightly to catch one last glimpse of the tank. "It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut." (3)

Jacqui glances at me in confusion but on my other side, Glenn huffs out a quiet laugh. "Lord of the Rings?" he chuckles dryly, flicking his eyes over to me for an instant before they zero in on the road again. "Really?"

I blink as I realize he's right, that's where the words are from, and shrug a shoulder at him, dropping my head as the ghost of a smile dances on my lips. "It just popped into my head. My friend…he was kind of obsessed with those movies. I've seen them more times than I could count. Nerdy but I could probably quote them for you." I meant the words to be light and teasing but Glenn falls silent beside me and I wince, picking at a hangnail absentmindedly as Mathias words whisper in my head.

"_Damn is Orlando Bloom hot or what? I'd tap that even if he is 3000 years old."_

The way that Glenn takes us, we come across literally zero walkers. The back streets and alleys that we drive are empty, abandoned, littered only with trash and debris and bodies that didn't move. More than one, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see something move, a slow, shuffling figure, but when I turn to look, there's nothing there and we continue to delve into the city, disturbing only ghosts.

Atlanta is not what I expected. Even aside from the silent streets and danger that is literally waiting around the next corner. I don't know it just seems…_bigger _than I imagined. Maybe it's the lack of people, the silence, but even with towering skyscrapers lining each side of the street, the city seems…too open, wide and echoing. I look up at what I think must have been an apartment building and tried to imagine living here, before the end of the world. I can't even begin. Dalton wasn't a bumfuck little town but we only had like 30,000 people. Georgia's former capital had more than 10 times that.

"It used to be beautiful."

I start at the quiet words, so sudden in the silence, and turn to see Jacqui staring at the same building I had been, eyes unfocused and wistful. "They city I mean," she clarifies, still not looking at me. "It wasn't Paris or anything but…it really was beautiful."

I remember how Glenn had said Jacqui used to be a city manager in Atlanta and for the first time I wonder…what was her exodus like? How did she get out? Did the emergency sirens wake her in the middle of the night, as they had woken me in Dalton, blaringly loud, driving fear and confusion into my bones? Did she slip the blockade, batter through it with a riot of people? Or had she left before everything went to hell, heeded the warning signs and got the hell out fast? I wonder if she lived around here, had driven these streets when they were packed with cars and people. I wonder…I wonder what ghosts she had left behind in the city when she fled and if they were catching up to her now.

Not responding to her statements, I reach over and gently squeeze her hand that lies limping in her lap. She turns to me at the pressure and gives me a small, shaky smile, squeezing tightly back.

We reach our destination, amazingly, without incident. As Glenn had told Morales before, we've pulled the vehicles half a block away from the store, parked in front of an alley that we lead us almost directly to the back door. Glenn says he's been here once or twice before, apparently he had lied when he said he only stuck to the city's fringes, and that he's locked up the building pretty tightly against geeks. It should be safe, on the inside. I'm not all that assured but it's what we got so I accept it.

However, there's still the _outside _that needs to be dealt with. To get to that back door, we have to slip down this alley and then quickly, _quietly, _onto the main street on the other side. From there, we run fifteen yards to the right and then slide around or under this bus that's been parked in front of _another _alley which holds the back entrance of the department store. Sounds easy enough.

Except Glenn says that, from what he remembers from his last visit, the main street is crawling with walkers. Not to mention how many will be in the alley when we finally steal into it. So yeah. Should be a lot of fucking fun.

"Everyone ready?" Glenn speaks into the walky-talky as he shoulders his own backpack on. I already have mine resting between my shoulder blades, tanto strapped to my hip. The katana's sheathe lies tight against my spine but the blade itself is gripped tightly between my fingers, tilted at an awkward angle between my legs and the truck's floor.

"Locked and loaded," T-Dog calls back. "Ready when you are."

Taking a deep breath, Glenn looks over at Jacqui and I. The older woman gives him a tight nod, her slim fingers wrapped around the handle of a lethal looking baseball bat. Glenn nods at her in return and then looks at me. For a moment, we just stare at each other, his brown eyes on my green. Countless words pass between us in those few seconds and then I give him a full-blown smile, feeling the adrenaline lick up my spine, setting sparks along my nerves. "_On three?" _I mouth and Glenn almost grins back in response before he pushes on the button on the walky-talky and hails T-Dog.

"Alright! On three everyone. Don't slam your doors and keep as low to the ground as you can. Follow me and, unless there's absolutely no other option, try to keep the guns holstered."

"Yes sir!" Andrea responds and, even though there is nothing particularly funny about this fucked up situation, I can almost here the smile in her voice.

Glenn grabs his own crowbar from between his feet and lifts the walky-talky up one last time. "One."

I flex my fingers along the katana's hilt, leaning into Glenn, ready to jump out right on his heels.

"Two."

A bead of sweat trails down the back of my neck and I take a deep breath, waiting for the plunge.

"_Three!"_

And then we're off.

Glenn throws open his door and drops out, Jacqui doing the same on my other side, the sound of gravel and creaking metal signaling the others are following behind us. As quick as I can, I follow Glenn out of the truck, swinging the door quietly shut before I take off after the group, falling into step right behind Glenn and right before Morales. I don't turn around to see if the others are with us because from the sound of footsteps and the absence of screaming and shouts, I assume they are.

The first alleyway is chocked with dumpsters and spare trash, a piece of rubble and debris here and there. But it's empty of bodies, both moving and non. Everyone is completely silent as we run, single file, towards the opening fifty yards ahead of us. It's in this silence that we first hear them. The walkers. The geeks. I haven't heard that noise in over a month but it's like it never left me. My skin breaks out in goose bumps and the hair on the back of my neck, along my arms, stands on end. The few spare moans that reach us seem drastically loud and they jar deep into my bones. From the stuttered pants behind me and the way Glenn's shoulders go taunt, I'm guessing they feel it too.

Right before the lip of the alley, a dumpster is shoved up against the wall, gaping open and putrid. I nearly gag with the smell of it but as we draw closer, hiding in its shadow, I see that the dumpster is empty, save some random pieces of paper and cardboard. That's when I realize that the smell isn't coming from the dumpster…it's coming from the street. I breathe shallowly through my mouth and press the back of my hand against my nose. Oh god.

Glenn throws up a hand to halt us and we skid to a stop, pressed up against the wall of the alley, hidden by the dumpster from the street. Turning to look at us, Glenn pants quietly. "I'm going to see how it looks," he whispers quickly. "Wait here."

I nod, even though he isn't just talking to me, and watch with my heart in my throat as Glenn creeps forward and slips around the dumpster's corner, peeking into the street. There's a breathless moment where I can't see Glenn, where all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears and the echoes of moans, but then Glenn slips right back to us, face drawn and pinched but not completely hopeless.

"What's it like?" Morales asks, words barely louder than a breath. I can feel him pressed up against my shoulder, body radiating nervous heat as we crouch. Over his head, I can see Andrea shooting anxious looks behind us, keeping a look out so we don't get bit in the ass. Literally.

Glenn gulps down a breath and wipes at his brow absentmindedly. "There's kind of a lot out there," he starts and someone whines quietly in distress. "But," he continues, raising a hand. "I think we'll be able to get to the alley without being spotted."

"Ya think? Ya better be fuckin sure ya damn gook!"

Blanching at Merle's not so quiet, irate words, Glenn nods spastically. "Most of the geeks are on the other side of the street or further down, towards the intersection. There are about two or three between us and the alley but if I throw or rock or something at a car's window on the other side, they should go towards the noise."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Morales shake his head vehemently. "You can't do that," he grunts. "If the car has an alarm and it goes off, every geek for miles is gonna come stumbling. We'll be trapped."

Everyone shudders at the thought.

"Ok," Glenn relents but I can see an edge of panic creep into his eyes. We've been out in the open far too long. We should already be in the building. I can see as my friend tries to grasp for straws, come up with a plan that can get _all _of us to safety but fast. By the way his Adam's apple bobs, I can see he's got jack shit as of now. "Ok um then…let me just think for a second and—"

"Let me go first," I hiss out suddenly, interrupting Glenn's nervous babble. As one, I can feel every eye turn to me in incredibility, bugged out and freaked out. I purse my lips and look right at Glenn as he opens his mouth to argue. "No listen! You said it's only one or two walkers right?"

Glenn nods stupidly.

"Alright," I say then. "I can deal with a few geeks. Let me go first, I'll sneak up on them, cut them down, and we have a clear shot at the alley. No noise, no commotion. In and out."

The horror in Glenn's eyes matches the refusal in Morales' as he speaks up behind me. "No. No way. I'm not about to let you be geek bait. We'll think of something else."

Scowling, I whirl on him and he jerks his head back as it brings us almost nose to nose. "We don't have time to think of something else," I grind out, fear dancing up my spine. "We stay out here any longer, we're all sitting ducks. Look, I get this isn't ideal. You think I want to run out there? But we need to get in that building and to get there we have to get through this street. You want to just run out there and bring every walker in Atlanta down on us or do you want to do this quietly?"

There's a tiny voice at the back of my head screaming at me to shut the fuck up and let the adults deal with this but I _begged _to go on this trip because _I _wanted to help, not sit back and let everyone do the dirty work. This is why I came right? I needed to man up and take fucking charge.

Morales has his lips pursed so tightly, they've gone white with the pressure. Jacqui and Andrea look the same from what I can see and Glenn is groaning nervously next to me. I can tell they all want to argue, refuse, but suddenly, there's a moan _just _on the other side of the dumpster and we're all cowering against the wall, holding our breath and hoping the geek passes. It takes a few moments but the walker shuffles onward, leaving the alley behind as he lurches to infinity. I meet Morales' eyes and cock an eyebrow, as if to say, '_Well?'_

The older man takes a deep breath and then another but he finally nods curtly, shushing the women's whispered protests with a wave of his hand.

"Shane's gonna kill me if he finds out but…Audrey's right," he mutters urgently. "We need a quick and quiet path and she's the best one to give us that. We've seen her with that blade," he says, nodding at the katana I'm holding tightly by my side. "She can do it."

He lifts his head and meets my gaze and even though I see fear and guilt in them, there's an undercurrent of faith and encouragement. Morales might fear for my life on principle but…on some level he believes I can do this. I hope he's right.

Giving Morales a nod of gratitude, I turn back to Glenn and grab onto his upper arm tightly, nails digging into his skin. "Follow me to the edge of the dumpster," I tell his hastily. "When you see that I've nearly made it to the bus, even if there is a geek or two left, make a break for it. I'll clear the path as fast as I can."

"And what happens if when you reach the alley and there are more geeks just waiting for you?" Glenn hisses, fear transforming his worry to anger. I bite my lip and make a helpless motion.

"Guess it's a good thing I stayed up all night running through drills huh?"

Glenn's eyes go wide and his jaw falls open, probably to berate me, but I don't give him the chance. Ducking my head quickly, I press a chaste kiss to his cheek on impulse and then I'm slipping past him, creeping as stealthily as I can to the edge of the dumpster.

As I reach the edge, a thousand memories crash through my mind. I can hear the screams of Dalton; I can feel the heat of burning flames; I can taste the flavor of ash and death on my tongue. My heart hammers a hummingbird's beat beneath my ribs and I've suddenly lost the ability to breathe. Sight narrowing to a pinpoint, I have just enough time to pray to whoever's listening that a walker isn't waiting right around this corner to bite my face off.

After the gloom of the close alley, the bright light of the open street blinds me for a moment. I blink rapidly and then, like a switch has been thrown, I see everything in high definition. There are cars lining the street, on each side, idled in the middle. Most have been busted out, some are charred remains, a few are even flipped on their sides. There's evidence of carnage everywhere. The asphalt of the street is shattered and buckled, by heat probably, heat from the bombs that the government had dropped in a last ditch effort to quarantine the city. Clothing and other personal items are so numerously scattered along the cement that I can almost not see the sidewalk and street beneath them. But all of that is nothing compared to the bodies.

They are everywhere; thrown around like the dolls of a child having a tantrum. The smell of death and decay grows sharper and I almost gag again. Prying my eyes away from the chaos, I lift my head and break out into a cold sweat as I see the walkers. Glenn hadn't been shitting; there are "kind of a lot." Thankfully though, he hadn't been lying when he said that most of them were on the other side of the street either, blocked by cars and obstacles. If everyone kept quiet and low to the ground, they might not even see us.

But it's not _them _that I have to worry about. It's the geeks to my right that lie between our destination and us. Taking I deep breath, I crane my neck over the lip of the dumpster, eyes casting about to find our obstacles.

There are three of them: a woman and two men. The woman is ten feet away, her back to me, ambling about thoughtlessly. The two men are farther along the sidewalk, right near the bus, also not looking my direction. I spare half a thought to the notion that maybe luck is on my side today.

This is it; the moment of truth. I lock my eyes on the female walker, fingers flexing on my katana. I can do this. It's nothing I haven't done before. _I can do this._

A part of me meekly asks what if I can't but I don't have the time to entertain that idea because the walker is slowly turning towards me and if I let her spot me, if I let her raise the alarm, we are all dead.

I won't let that happen.

With my heart beating on my tongue, my stomach lying leaden in my shoes, I exhale sharply and then I'm moving, shoving out of my crouch and sprinting, half bent over with my sword extended at my side. The thing that used to be a female, maybe someone's mother, sister, definitely somebody's daughter, completes her turn just as I reach her and when her eyes lock on mine, her jaw falls open, throat working to issue that bone chilling, gut clenching moan. It never hits the air.

Just as her hands come up, just as her vocal chords begin to vibrate, I straighten my knees with a snap and haul my katana in an upward slash, cleaving right through her neck with a silent snarl. Her head tumbles to my feet, blood arching through the air but I don't stop. Still moving, I corkscrew my sword down, stabbing right through the eye socket of the decapitated head. There's a sickening crack, followed by a squelch as I rip the blade out and keep running. My feet slap what I feel is echoingly loud against the cement but I don't turn to see if the other geeks have noticed; I keep my eyes locked on my next target that's five yards and rapidly drawing closer.

The second walker, 6 foot tall and stocky, doesn't even see me coming. One moment, he's bumping aimlessly into the belly of an overturned car and the next, half is head flies to the left as his body slumps limply forward.

I'm just starting to think that this insane plan of mine just might work as I reach the bus and the last walker that's trying to squeeze into the alley I need to get into when I kick a stray can I hadn't noticed and the aluminum skitters loudly against the pavement, colliding loudly with the building's wall. My heart stops and my blood runs cold as the sound echoes and I push myself _that _much faster to reach the last walker in time but I'm too late. I'm ten feet away and closing when the geek turns and spots me, glazed over eyes widening at the first sign of food in god knows how long, and lets out a moan that resounds in my ears like the noise of a jet plane taking off.

Baring my teeth in rage, I swing out swiftly, hoping to lop off the thing's head like I had with the woman, but it moves faster than I anticipated, motivated by food, and the edge of the blade catches on its shoulder, grinding into bone as the walker stumbles into arms reach, fingers groping for me. Instinct in me freezes, my muscles going for the deer in the headlights lock up as my hand slips from the katana's hilt, geek too close now, almost crashing into my body. My first reflex is to try and grab for the katana, still lodged in the geek's shoulder, but I shove that thought away and instead, let the sword go entirely, spinning to the side and letting the walker stumble past me. My momentum has me slamming into the back of the bus, the impact making my vision swim and my ears ring but then I remember that Glenn was supposed to be right behind me and I'm shoving off the bus like a rubber ball rebounding.

Sure enough, Glenn is nearly five feet way from the walker, eyes wide and face blanched. I see Morales' mouth curse, Andrea open hers to scream Glenn's name, T-Dog half raising his arm, gun in his grasp, but then everything else is eclipsed by the walker's broad back as I slam into it, the tanto that I have just ripped from my side burying itself into the hollow at the base of the geek's skull. The geek twitches once in my grasp and then he's careening to the ground, like a puppet who's strings have been cut and I have just enough foresight to yank the tanto out of its head before it takes me down with it. The walker lands face first at Glenn's feet and he looks from it to me with this awe struck, disbelieving expression but I don't take time to reciprocate. Leaning down, I wrench my katana out of the walker's body with my left hand and jerk my head towards the alley, already running back towards the bus because a few of the walkers down the street have heard the commotion and I would like to be _inside _before they reach us.

The bus is shoved almost completely perpendicular to the mouth of the alley, leaving only a sliver of space for a person to squeeze through. Sheathing my tanto quickly, I inhale sharply and wiggle through the gap, feeling the brick building scratching along my forearms and catching on the bulk of my pack before I finally fall through, stumbling to right myself. Gasping, I snap my head up, ready to face another slew of geeks but the alley is empty save one walker, far in the back, right near the entrance. Turning my head, I watch as Glenn slips through the space after me, Morales, Jacqui, Andrea, Merle, and finally T-Dog falling through after him.

"One more," I pant out, gesturing with my sword at the lone walker. Glenn blinks at me and half raises his crowbar, wordlessly offering. I shake my head and readjust my pack. "Just get everyone in the building. I'll be right behind you."

Pursing his lips, Glenn doesn't look happy but he doesn't argue, gesturing for the others to follow him to the right side of the alley as I head to the left, walking towards the geek. It catches sight of me almost halfway and it drops what I realize, swallowing bile, is the carcass of what use to be a cat. Teeth dyed red, it snarls at me and begins to run, ambling quickly towards the bigger meal. Learning from my last mistake, I time my swing to the geek's speed and, within a few moments, its head lands at my feet, my sword imbedded in its mouth.

"Audrey!" Glenn calls out frantically from the doorway. Gritting my teeth, I jerk back and jog towards the door, crossing the threshold just as another walker squeezes itself past the bus.

The door slams behind me with a definitive bang and I lean back against it panting. My pulse is still pounding and my breathing is erratic and I feel like I've just run thirty miles instead of yards. But…aside from physical exertion…I think I'm fine. I _think. _

After a few minutes have past in which I try to catch my breath, I open my eyes to find six other pairs staring at me in varying levels of shock and amazement. Well, except for Merle. I can't tell what's in his eyes but I don't very well like it.

"What?" I ask finally, breathing still slightly irregular. The others blink at me, also gasping, sweat running into their eyes as they clasp their respective weapons. "_What?" _I repeat when no one responds.

Morales is the first one to extract himself from his stupor and when he does, he shakes his head and starts to laugh, first quietly but then escalading into full blown, almost rolling on the floor, laughter.

"Mijita," he manages when he can breathe properly again. He looks up at me and grins, flash of white teeth and twinkling brown eyes. "You have got to have the _biggest _cojones I've ever fucking seen."

I blush at his praise and stick my tongue out at him, feeling the blood pool in my cheeks as the blood on my katana drips to the floor. T-Dog laughs beside me, and I turn to see him set the bag of Dale's tools that we had brought on the ground as he slides off his hat and rubs the sweat off his scalp.

"I second that," he chuckles. "I mean _damn. _How does so much bad ass fit in someone so small?"

Rolling my eyes, I shove off the door and twirl the katana in my grasp, snapping my wrist down to shake off the blood and pieces of flesh that are clinging to its edge. "Alright, alright. Enough with the blowing hot air up my ass. Don't we have a job to do?"

The group huffs as one and then, we quickly set about barring the door, spreading out the supplies, slapping a map on the small table in this little back room that we've made our headquarters as Glenn starts to lay out the plan for the trip.

And, if while Glenn is organizing our little scavenge party, I'm draped across his back, face pressed tightly into his shoulder, faking looking at the map as he points out who's going where and when, and just _breathing, _trying to lock my muscles so they don't shake out of my skin, well…no one's the wiser.

* * *

><p>Four hours later, and we are almost done. I can't believe it. And, what's more, none of us are really worse for wear. Ok, so I <em>might <em>have twisted my right ankle again about half an hour ago but it wasn't my fault! The thing's faulty and Glenn also hadn't told me we were going to be doing the Spiderman, dropping from roof to roof. Besides, it's not even that bad. I can still walk on it. For the most part.

Anyways, the trip has been an uncharacteristic success. Glenn had pointed T-Dog and Andrea to an out of the way little supermarket/convenience store a few blocks away. There had been two geeks inside but they apparently had been quickly dealt with and the two came back conquering heroes, a whole pack full of canned food, boxes, bags, and even a few spare meds, Tylenol and Advil, nothing major but better than squat. Jacqui and Morales found a little less success in raiding the department store we had holed up in but they did manage to find some nice clothes for almost everyone in camp. Jacqui even found me new shoes, some high priced Nikes that were just the right size. I don't have them on now though, but I know exactly where they are, at the bottom of my bag, just under the large bag of rice.

We had almost left a couple of minutes ago but Glenn had suddenly said he wanted to check one last place, a few blocks over. I had offered to go with him but, with my ankle on the fritz, I was outvoted. T-Dog had stepped up to take my place but Glenn had waved him off as well, saying it would be quicker if he could just dart on over alone and back again. Everyone was a little leery of letting him go alone but he pointed out that he's done this countless times and that he would be fine. He said he'd be back in half an hour tops.

So, here I am, sitting on the edge of the table in our center of operations, aka the service entrance/storage room, alternating between swinging my legs and rotating my ankle. I wince when the muscle pulls painfully but exhale slowly and work through it. I need to be able to run by the time Glenn gets back so even if it hurts like a bitch, I have to stretch this sprain out. Actually, I don't think I really sprained it this time. The site isn't as tender as it was on the road to Atlanta. I think I might have just overexerted myself. Either way, stellar move Audrey. Real gold. Sighing, I drop my head back and close my eyes, wishing Glenn would hurry it along.

"Uh oh. Seems our resident ninja has run out of juice."

Cracking open an eye, I look over to see Morales standing in the doorway, grinning his head off. "Have you been talking to Amy?" I ask. "I don't know how many times I've told her that I'm not a ninja. Or a samurai. Or some type of super hero."

The older Mexican man chuckles and walks farther into the room, pulling out the chair beside me and collapsing into it with a sigh. I cock an eyebrow. "And talk about running out of juice huh?" I tease.

"Sue me chicita. Not all of us are spring chickens any more."

I roll my eyes and nudge his shoulder playfully. "Yeah yeah. Where is everyone anyway? Thought I heard Andrea in he hallway." Leaning a bit forward, I look to see if anyone else had been standing behind Morales. The doorway remains empty.

Morales shakes his and rubs tiredly at his chin. "Nah. She's 'shopping' with Jacqui still," he says, air quoting the word _shopping._ "I think she said something about Amy but I walked away before I heard the rest of the story."

Smirking, my hand absentmindedly trails to brush against my pocket, a small, rectangular shape straining the fabric of the slightly large, green cargo pants I'm wearing. It might have been a little selfish but, while everyone had been out, except for Glenn and I since it was right after I fucked up my ankle, I had perused the store, looking for a gift for my friend back at camp. Her birthday was in two days after all. I hadn't been planning to look, not consciously, but the opportunity just presented itself and I jumped on it. It took a while and I was just about to give up when I saw something out of the corner of my eye and, upon seeing it, I thought to myself that I couldn't have found something more perfect. It was a little cheesy but…just right. I hope she liked it.

"Yeah I bet she is," I say in response to Morales' statement. "It's her birthday in a few days. I'm sure Andrea wants to get something special."

Morales looks at me with raised eyebrows. "No shit?"

I nod. "No shit."

"Hmm…maybe we'll break out that cake mix T-Dog grabbed. We don't have eggs but…we might be able to find something."

I smile at the prospect. Maybe Amy will get her party after all. "By the way, where is T-Dog? Don't tell me he's shopping too," I joke lightly, imagining the burly man modeling shirts in a dressing room mirror.

For a moment, Morales snickers, probably envisioning something similar to my image, but then the smile slips off his lips and is replaced by a slight frown. He scratches at his scalp and sighs as I furrow my brow at him in confusion. "Ah no. Dog went to go check out the look out station. See if everything's…kosher."

I stare in shock at Morales, blinking as I freeze mid ankle rotation. "The _look out station? _Are you serious? Isn't—?"

Morales nods before I can even finish my question. "Yeah. I told him not to go up there but…he wouldn't listen." He groans and rubs at his eyes, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling. "I just hope Merle doesn't throw him over the side."

I'm barely able to restrain my grimace because Morales doesn't know how warranted his fear really is. Racist is a polite term for what Merle Dixon is. I won't mention the impolite names. Shit. Frowning, I follow Morales' lead and gaze up at the ceiling, wishing I could see through the ten floors above us and up onto the roof.

After the initial sprint that got us in the building, and when that bout of adrenaline finally faded, my brain had done a pretty good job in reminding me, '_Oh hey. You know that guy that wants to kill you? Yeah, he's five feet away holding a loaded rifle. Just FYI.'_

To be fair, just about everyone else in the group had been between us and I didn't actually _think _he was going to kill me right in front of everyone but, regardless, I could **feel **his eyes on my and my skin had been crawling ever since. The entire trip, I had done my best to stick close to at least one other person, never going off alone and never, _ever, _being in the same room as Merle unless at least two other people were present. For the most part, it had worked. There was only _one _instant where I fucked up, trailing behind as we cleared the department store, making sure there were no walkers. I took my eyes off of Glenn for _one _second, gaze drifting over to a shiny dress that was actually very pretty, if not very expensive, and before I knew it, someone was running into my back, jarring the katana out of my hand and onto the floor just as the stale odor of tobacco, liquor, and sweat reached my nose.

I had frozen as Merle breathed down my neck, hand twitching near my tanto, as the older man chuckled in my ear and took a step back. Fearing that he was going to gut me while my back was turned, I spun to face him, ready to fight, to scream if he tried anything and I just _knew _he was going to because he had promised and here we were, all alone, because I was a mother fucking idiot. But, instead of going for my throat, or his gun, like I thought he was, Merle just smiled at me, sickly sweet and slow as molasses before he bent down and wrapped his hand around my sword. My heart had jumped into my throat because, wouldn't that beat all? Merle, killing me with my own blade. I was just about ready to open my mouth and shout for help, muscles coiling to shove Merle away, when the older Dixon plucked my katana up and offered it to me, hilt first. All I had done was blink at him stupidly, unable to process thoughts let alone audible words when Glenn and Andrea came jogging back into the room, instantly on high alert when they saw Merle and I together. Andrea had come up nice and slow and asked what was going on as Glenn sidled up beside me, crowbar in hand, just in case. Merle didn't seem fazed by the thinly veiled hostility in the room; in fact, it seemed to amuse him more.

"Just helpin our little savior here," he drawled and, from the distance I had been standing, I could see the dilation of his pupils, the almost imperceptible white power dusting the bottom of his nose. Merle was feeling no pain at that point and, for that split second in time, he was actually acting cordial. I still can't decide if it had been a ruse or just the drugs talking.

"Ya should hang onto this little tighter sugar tits," he had said then, addressing me as he prodded my hand with the katana's hilt. I groped for it blindly, hurriedly, as his smile took on a certain edge, just under the saccharine crap he was spouting. "Wouldn't want to get caught without it."

He had walked away without further incident but I still can't shake the feeling that his last words had been a warning, a threat. Needless to say, I was fucking relieved as hell when Morales had suggested that Merle take the lookout position on the roof since he had the long-range weapon and was the best shot. He told Merle to make sure everything was clear for when people were returning off their scavenges and to shoot only when things looked dangerous. We had all waited with bated breath to see if Merle would argue, or worse lash out, but the older male had just grinned sloppily, higher than a Georgia pine, and relented, climbing the stairs without any further comment. That was about three hours ago and I haven't seen Merle since. Thank fucking God.

"Hey," Morales says suddenly, making me drop my head and look at him. He doesn't meet my gaze right off the bat, rubbing uneasily at the back of his neck, eyes averted. After a few moments pause, however, he lifts his head and looks me dead on, curiosity bright in his brown orbs. "I have to ask mijita. It's not really any of my business but I've been dying to know. What was with you and Dixon yesterday? Daryl, not Merle."

The question is so off the wall and random for the moment that all I can do is gape and stutter for the next few instants. "W…what?" I finally manage to get out, voice high and breaking. "I…n…nothing. We…we were just going hunting. Before Shane came and uh…misunderstood things. W…why?"

Morales smirks lightly and cocks an eyebrow at me. His expression automatically reminds me of Amy's teasing from earlier today and I can't help but blush and duck my head, staring pointedly at my ankle as I rotate it. "I don't know why you people keep looking at me like that," I mutter, feeling the tips of my ears burn. "Daryl and I just hunted a few times when he needed help. That's it."

"Mmmhmm," Morales hums, sounding unconvinced, smirk stretching into a Cheshire grin. "And those few 'hunting trips' urged you to defend Daryl's honor yesterday?"

I scowl at the older man and kick my leg out, catching him in the arm slightly. "Oh shut up Morales. I was just trying to be a moral fucking citizen. Daryl's…an asshole I'll admit it but…" I trail off, fingers itching to trace the scar on my temple. "But he saved my life and, honestly, he's not completely horrid. Taught me how to skin and clean things without taking my head off so…I don't know," I shrug. "I consider him an acquaintance."

The word feels as awkward in my mouth as _partner _and I think Morales can tell. "Acquaintance?" he repeats skeptically and I flush a deeper read, the word **friend **stamped on the inside of my eyelids. Chewing on my tongue, I open my mouth to try and explain what I _thought _was between Daryl and I, maybe not as in depth as I had with Amy, when all of the sudden, gunshots rings out, _**loud, **_one after another after another, followed by T-Dog's voice echoing out through the store, worried and distressed.

"Guys! We have a fucking problem!"

Within seconds, Morales and I are on our feet, conversation forgotten completely, the flare of pain in my ankle all but eclipsed as my fear soars through the roof and I taste the acid tang of bile in the back of my throat. What the fuck in happening!

Morales stutters for the doorway but T-Dog beats him to it, sliding down the hall and almost face planting into the room, Andrea and Jacqui hot on his heels. "What the fuck T-Dog!" Morales demands and it's like he's taken the words right out of my mouth.

The other man straightens up with a gasp, sweat running down his face, and holds up the walky-talky in his hands, gesturing to it wildly as he tries to catch his breath. My stomach clenches and I feel like I might black out. _Glenn. _

"I…was on…the roof," T-Dog gasps, chest heaving like he's having an asthma attack. I distantly realize he must have sprinted down all ten floors to reach us. "Glenn…called. I couldn't…understand him and then…gunshots."

"But Glenn didn't _take _a gun," I point out harshly, heart hammering out of my chest even worse than when I had faced those walkers in the alley because this is _Glenn _and he can't fucking die. That's the reason I came on this trip in the first place, at least one of the main reasons. I was supposed to protect him. He…he can't die while I was sitting on my ass shooting the shit with Morales, nursing a bruised leg. That…that's just too fucked up, even for this world.

And here I was thinking that we were just about home free.

T-Dog nods and gulps in another lungful of air. "I…I know but it wasn't me and…I was with Merle. Wasn't him either." He shrugs helplessly. "I don't know."

The world shakes from side to side, colors blurring and meshing and it takes me a moment to realize I'm shaking my head in denial. "No," I say and I feel hysteria build beneath my skin, like too much air in a balloon, fit to bursting. "No, we have to go look for him."

"Are you nuts?" Andrea shrieks, staring at me with huge blue eyes, just like her sisters. "Every walker in Atlanta is gonna be headed this direction. We can't go out there looking for him! We have to—"

My eyes go wide as I mentally finish her sentence. "Have to what?" I snarl, not liking what I think she's implying. I take a step toward her and she flinches, retreating an equal step back. "Leave Glenn? Is that what you were going to say?" The idea pisses me off just as much as the shit with Daryl did yesterday. Even more so, actually, because this was Glenn's fucking _life _we are talking about, not his fucking reputation.

Andrea cows at my tone, my words, and immediately deflates. "N…no," she whispers and it's only then do I realize the tears in her eyes, the tremble to her lips. "But what…what the hell are we going to do?"

And that's the million dollar fucking question isn't it? Because Andrea is right. Those gunshots would have been heard for miles. All the geeks of Atlanta are probably stumbling towards us. We need to find a way out. And Glenn…Glenn's still…

The image of his smile and every stupid fucking memory I have with the infuriating Asian jumps to the forefront of my mind because he might be dead and I've lost yet another loved one.

Suddenly, the crackle of static screams out in the silence of the room and we all jump. Bewildered, T-Dog lifts his hand up and all of us stare at the walky-talky with bated breath. I stupidly, at the back of my mind, consider crossing my fingers.

There's a beat of silence and then, gloriously, we hear it.

"I'm back," Glenn's breathless voice calls out through the static. My knees shake and I almost collapse to the floor in relief. "Got a guest," he continues, voice cracking and wavering. "Plus four geeks in the alley."

We all glance at each other in shock for a moment, _a guest?, _but then we realize that Glenn is probably coming down the fire escape on the other side of the alley and that there are four walkers between him and us. Scrambling, I'm about to run to the door but Morales beats me to it, shoving me back as T-Dog shoves the walky-talky at me, both men pulling on the hockey helmets they had donned all day when going out, preventatives against any geek juice that might get on them. I never bothered with it but to each man his own.

The two men share one last glance before they slam the back door wide open and sprint into the alley, the sound of walker groans quickly eclipsed by the sound of bats caving in skulls, an urgent shout, and the slap of feet on cement as Glenn and another man come barreling into the storage room, panting and pale.

The second that I see him, alive and not covered in blood, something in my chest unhitches because oh my fucking god my friend is _alive and I didn't let him die. _"Glenn," I scream out, unable to control myself. Before I know it, I'm throwing myself at him, wrapping my arms as tight as I can around his neck and stuffing my face into the hard line of his shoulder. The slight man stumbles at the unexpected impact and the sudden weight but he wraps one arm loosely around my waist regardless, gasping my name in my ear as a response.

I rip my face away from his shoulder, drawing back just enough to see his face, and open my mouth to ask **what the fuck just happened **but Andrea cuts me off.

"You son of a bitch," she snarls at the newcomer, a man of average height, lean build, dirty face and blue eyes that jar something familiar in me, like a sense of déjà vu. She shoves the man up against some spare boxes and crates, face twisted, and then she has her gun **right **there, nearly pressed against his cheek. "We oughta kill you!"

The man looks frightened, gasping as he stares down the barrel of Andrea's gun, but Morales steps up suddenly, having just slammed the door behind him and T-Dog.

"Just chill out Andrea. Back off." He's yanking off his helmet as he says this, sweat dripping down his jaw, and starts to work on the padding T-Dog and him and worn all day as well, more preventative measures.

Jacqui steps up then, worried and wide-eyed. "Come one. Ease up," she implores Andrea, gazing at the gun like it was pointed at her.

Andrea snorts scornfully, shoving the weapon closer to the man's face. From my angle, I can see the tears starting to slide down her cheeks. "Ease up? You're kidding me right. Audrey said it. Glenn didn't have a gun. It was this son of a bitch! We're _**dead**_ because of this stupid _asshole._"

I blink as I process Andrea' words. I hadn't thought about that, hadn't given anything beyond Glenn and him being alive a second glance. But now that Glenn is standing right next to me, pressed into my side, alive and breathing, I look over at the man that Andrea has pinned down, eyes dropping to the pistol that he has strapped to his hip. A pistol that I would bet my life, if it were even worth anything at this point, that is riding on empty.

"Andrea!" Morales snaps sharply, yanking his chest pads off. "I said back the hell off!"

When the blonde woman doesn't move, doesn't drop her weapon an inch, Morales scowls and leans in close to her. "Or pull the trigger," he drawls, almost taunting her. The man on the other side of the gun shoots Morales a desperate, pleading look and strains back as Andrea just shoves the gun farther into his face.

There's a tense moment where no one moves and everyone barely breathes as we wait for Andrea's next action. It takes a few seconds but she finally drops the gun and steps away, face collapsing as she looks at the man in disgust and hatred.

"We're dead—all of us—because of you," she says and it feels like a punch to the solar plexus because what the hell just happened? We were almost out of here, heading back to camp the conquering heroes! How did it go up in flames so fast?

The stranger is still panting, from fear, from exertion, and spares each and every one of us a confused look. "I," he starts, the first words he's said, and his voice is a warm timbre, slightly gravelly with a thick Georgia accent. "I don't understand."

Morales, who as just finished unvesting himself, snarls quietly, the first time I've _ever _seen him angry, and grabs tightly onto the man's upper arm, spinning him around and shoving him towards the door that leads to the department floor. I spare Glenn a bewildered glance but he shrugs his shoulders helplessly and we stumble after Morales.

"Look, we came into the city to scavenge supplies," I hear him explain sharply. You know what the key to scavenging is? Surviving! You know the key to surviving? Sneaking in and out, tiptoeing!" He shoves the strangers forward with each word, harder and harder, angrier and angrier, until we reach the main section of the store. I slide around a rack of clothes, Glenn glued to my side, just in time to hear Morales say, "Not shooting up the streets like it's the OK Corral!"

As his words echo in my ears, I lift my head and that's when I see them.

And that's when the world crashes and burns around my ears.

Again.

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><p><em><strong>Present Time<strong>_

The walkers are still hammering away at the glass, the sound like a snarling waterfall, pounding water and tumbling stones. Or in this case, pounding fists and tumbling moans. Glenn mutters something next to me but it's too quiet for me to hear and at the exact instant, the geek with the rock smashes into the top corner of the outer door and the glass peels inward, drooping down and letting grasping fingers poke through, bloody and hungry.

"Oh god," Andrea gasps and I can't help but think that if there ever was a God, he's not exactly listening anymore.

We were on the edge of starvation; we were past the end of the world. All we wanted was to scavenge a little food, some meager supplies, to keep ourselves, our friends and families, going, if only for a little while longer.

How did it come to this?

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><p><strong>(1) Quote by poet Robert Burns. <strong>

**(2) In this behind the scenes deal on TWD DVD, Steven Yeun had pointed out this tarp bucket thing that was supposed to be the shower :) Idk how to really explain it xD**

**(3) Quote from The Return of the King, the last part in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I'm a LOTR nerd. Not going to lie. Can quote all three movies for you. Sue me.**

**Dun dun da! *****suspenseful music***

**So? How was that? :} I tried to stick as close to canon as possible but, obviously, with some minor tweaks. Did it work as well as I had hoped? :/ Please tell me!**

**Got some more insight into Audrey's past here and some rapport with Amy and Glenn. :) Which makes future events even sadder T.T But we will cross that bridge when we get there. :P**

**I hoped you enjoyed this installment and PLEASE remember to review! I love seeing story alerts and favorites but, since you have to click on the review button to do either of those options, please drop a line or two of feedback :) I really want to know what you guys are thinking!**

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**

**PS: Is anyone else a little weirded out by the new fanfic format? O.o I'm still trying to adjust. **

**PPS: Random question but is anyone out there a Supernatural fan? Just curious.**


	17. The Wolf's Teeth are Red

**Here's chapter 17 :D Hope you guys like it! ^^ Thanks for all the reviews on last chapter and remember to leave some for this one as well! I love hearing from you guys! ;D**

**Oh! Btw. I did something different POV wise in this chapter :P I've decided that from now on instead of dedication whole chapters to one characters POV, I'll switch within ease individual chapter as i see fit :) That way there's no tedious recap. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the TWD characters nor do I own the show's dialogue mentioned in this piece. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 17: The Wolf's Teeth are Red<strong>

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><p>I am still staring at the horde of starving geeks, mind blank and fear replacing the blood in my veins, when a hand wraps around my elbow and tugs me back. The force throws me off balance and I have a split second of terror to think that the walkers had come up behind us before I suddenly feel Glenn's chaotic breaths on my neck and the tremble in his fingers as they press against my skin.<p>

And all of the sudden, the world gets thrown into stark relief, high definition and quality sound. Since Glenn and I had rounded that corner, what 30 seconds ago, everything felt vaguely muffled, distorted sound and far away images. I knew what was happening, I wasn't disillusioned, but it must have been the shock because now everything is hitting me like a freight train and I'm right in the middle of this scene, no longer watching from a distance.

The others have fallen back a few steps I notice. Probably why Glenn had tugged me back, everyone retreating from the danger in front of us. Fuck. Like a few feet and a handful of spare racks are going to do anything when that glass break. When. Not if.

Heart suddenly beating too loud in my ears, I tear my eyes away from the storefront and turn to the rest of the group. Glenn is standing at my back, fingers still gripping grooves into my skin. There's a dull pain where I think I begin to bruise but I ignore it because the pain is keeping me just as grounded as the contact is keeping Glenn. Andrea is suddenly to my left, panting with tears still on her cheeks as she glares balefully at the man across from us. I follow her line of sight and finally _look _at the newcomer, the pause in conversation and movement allowing me to finally _see_ him.

He's older than I had first thought, leaning closer to his forties than his twenties. He looks dirty and worn out and his clothes…a uniform? I furrow my brow as I take in his state of dress: brown pants, beige button up with a white undershirt and a gold star, pinned right over his heart. A cop. Small town probably because I don't think Atlanta PD wore this type of uniform, seeming straight out of a western movie or some crap. Something niggles at the back of my mind, suddenly, a hazy memory, a flash of beige I can't remember where from but I shake it away as I continue my perusal of the man's features. There's a few days worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, his dark hair greasy and unwashed but somewhat groomed. His face is pale but streaked with dirt and sweat, highbrow and sharp nose shinning with oil. Then there are his eyes: red rimmed and wide but with irises that are a crisp, pale blue. For the second time, I can't help thinking they look familiar, something twisting in my gut, but then Andrea suddenly speaks up and I'm turning to stare at her.

"What the hell were you doing out there anyway?" she demands, acid in her tone.

The man only pauses for a second before he responds, still breathing raggedly. "Trying to flag the helicopter."

His words make us all balk, staring at him in shock. I blink and curb the urge to rub at my ears because did he just say—?

"Helicopter?" T-Dog blurts, taking the word straight from my thoughts. He stares at the man like he thinks he's gone crazy. Which is a distinct possibility. "Man that's crap. There ain't no damn helicopter."

Yeah, no shit. We can barely find food in this city, let alone fucking jet fuel.

The rest of us are sharing looks of incredibility and confusion, even slight pity. Jacqui seems to be full of this latter emotion because she raises her hands, as if to placate the man, brown eyes wide and soft even as she flinches at the sound of rabid geeks not twenty feet away. "You were chasing a hallucination, imagining things," she says gently. "It happens."

But the man just seems angered by her pity and excuses, blue eyes going flinty as he snaps, "I _saw _it."

The conviction in his voice unsettles me and I feel Glenn shift uneasily at my back. Unbidden, I drop my eyes to the gun holstered on his hip and think that this man had run down a street full of geeks and had no injuries to tell the tale. He must be one hell of a shot to accomplish that. I feel a kernel anxiety unfurl in my gut, veiled in a blanket of distrust. As if the city wasn't dangerous enough.

Out of the corner my eye, I see Morales and T-Dog share a loaded look, a look that seems to share my sentiments, but they don't say them out loud. There isn't any time. Instead, Morales turns and casts half a distressed glance at the storefront before changing the subject.

"Hey, T-Dog, try that C.B. Can you contact the others?"

The other man drops his eyes to his hands, fingers curling empty and it takes me a moment to remember that _I'm _the one holding the radio, having been thrown it as the other two men had raced to save Glenn. Fumbling forward, I lift my hand and offer the device, unsure of how to do what Morales had said.

"H…here," I stutter. T-Dog nods in gratitude and begins to fiddle with the knobs and dials, brow furrowed in concentration. I spare half a thought to Shane and the others back at camp, can we reach them, could they reach us, but the man besides Andrea speaks up again, confusion thick in his voice.

"Others? The refugee center?" There's a tinge of hope in his words, a desperation, an almost pleading. The mention of the center is like a kick to the gut and I'm left feeling vaguely breathless, lungs too small and the need for air too large. Glenn tightens his grip unknowingly on my arm and I can hear the stutter in his breath, his eyes boring into my skull even though I won't turn to look. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. Here we, here _I,_ meet this stranger, who might have signed our death sentences, and he's looking for the same thing I had been just weeks ago. I kind of want to laugh at the same time I want to cry.

Jacqui, surprisingly, is the one to scoff and deliver the news. "Yeah, the refugee center," she says derisively. "They've got biscuits waiting at the oven for us."

The man tilts his head in incomprehension, a dark doubt flittering across his features, and I'm thrown back weeks ago, standing in the woods with blood on my face and ice in my veins. _"Fuck, there ain't no fuckin refugee center. The only thing in Atlanta is a bunch of walkers and a whole lot of dead people."_

I didn't want to believe Daryl then and this man doesn't look like he believes us now but T-Dog interrupts before the questions can start, before the horrible answers can begin.

"Got no signal," he announces and my stomach drops into my shoes. But then he snaps his head up, eyes wide and feverish. "Maybe the roof!"

The suggestion stuns me for a moment and then my heart kick starts because this could work, maybe, if we can just reach Shane because Shane will know what to do. He has to. Some plan B, some kind of backup. _Something. _We just need to get to the roof and take it from there.

And, of course, that's when the gunshots start.

The first one sounds like a canon, makes us all jump. Stupidly, my eyes skitter first to the newcomer, glancing over the gun strapped to his hip, before Andrea points out that the sound is coming from _above. _

"Oh no. Is that _Dixon?"_

"What is that maniac doing?" Jacqui gasps but Morales is already moving, T-Dog hot on his heels, sprinting for the stairs. People start to follow, Glenn tugging at my arm, but I see the other man hasn't moved, alternating between staring at the howling walkers and ceiling where the shots are echoing down from. Not thinking, I reach out and brush his shoulder, nearly flinching when he snaps his gaze to look me straight in the eye. There's this hollowed, dizzied, look in his eyes, like he's been knocked over the head and the room is spinning and he can't process anything, can barely stand on his own two feet. I know the feeling, can sympathize completely but now is not the time for sympathy because Glenn is yanking harder at my arm, voice insistent and high pitched with fright.

"Come on! Let's go!"

I give the man one last glance before I turn to Glenn and nod, letting him pull me towards the stairs, half listening as the newcomer falls into step behind me, trying to quell the knot of unease that settles in my gut.

The sprint up to the roof takes me longer than it should have but with every step my ankle flared with pain, making me falter every so often. Needless to say, I'm breathless in more than just exertion when I finally make it to the final flight, sweat blurring my vision as my lungs ache. Morales is the first one to make it to the top and from my position at the bottom of the flight I can hear the door burst open, ricocheting off the opposite wall.

"Hey Dixon! Are you crazy?" I can hear him scream and even though I'm nearly delirious in oxygen deprivation, I can only think, _'Really?' _Is that even a legitimate question?

I fumble onto the roof right behind Glenn, clinging to the back of his shirt as we stumble down another small set of stairs, Morales and the rest of the group on some kind of elevated ramp behind us. There's a stitch in my side and I'm leaning heavily on my left leg, propped up on my right by Glenn, but even through my gasping I can hear Merle's crazed sounding laughter like nails on a chalk board. I cringe at the noise and lift my head to find the older Dixon, the hairs on the back of my neck raising before I even see him.

Merle is standing on the edge of the building, butt of his rifle tucked against his shoulder as he aims down at the street. He fires off another round and laughs again, turning precariously to address us.

"Hey!" he calls out, feet slightly unsteady on the cement ledge. I have this insane thought that he might just fall off and, even as dark satisfaction fills me at the thought, I'm overwhelmed by a dark guilt for even thinking that. "Ya outta be more polite to a man with a gun!" He points the barrel of his rifle half jokingly and half in threat at Morales. My back goes rigid and I don't have to turn and look to see that the rest of the group is the same. Merle seems nothing but amused, grinning from ear to ear as he jumps down to the rooftop, both hands gripping his gun. "Only common sense."

I hear the scuffle of feet on gravel behind me and, suddenly, T-Dog's voice is echoing across the roof, enraged and tight with fear.

"Man! You wastin bullets we ain't even got!" In my peripherals, I see T-Dog scramble down ten feet away from me, body language violent and jerky. "And you're bringing even more of them down on our ass! Man, just chill!"

His tone is antagonistic at best and I can only stare in incredibility at his profile, my eyes bugged out and jaw gaping. Merle is out of line here, shocker, but Morales and T-Dog getting up in his face like this, especially with a loaded round in Merle's chamber…this can't end well. My arm twitches just slightly and I'm aching to grab for my katana but Merle's rapid approach towards T-Dog has me freezing in place.

"Hey! It's bad enough I've got this taco-bender on my ass all day," Merle snarls, gesturing harshly at Morales. The bruise that Daryl's punch had left on his face is stark and livid, making the expression even more grotesque. He paces slightly in front of T-Dog, like a wild animal, his slightly sunburned face twisted in anger. T-Dog leans back slightly, his own rage draining as he realizes whom he's been screaming at. Merle seems to notices the almost imperceptible flinch because he suddenly steps right up into T-Dog's face, challenging. "Now I'm gonna take orders from you?" he asks rhetorically. "I don't think so bro. That'll be the day."

And, like a switch being thrown, there's a sudden shift in T-Dog's features, unease and fear bleeding into annoyance and something hotter. I watch as his lip curls and his eyes narrows and there's a sudden suspicion pulsing in my head but please, _please, _let me be wrong. Let me be wrong because T-Dog couldn't possibly be so stupid as to—

"'That'll be the day'?" T-Dog repeats and _fucking hell_ I wasn't wrong after all. "You got something you want to tell me?"

T-Dog steps even closer to Merle, almost puffing out his chest, and I have the simultaneous urge to laugh and turn tail. The unease in my veins is becoming sharper, more potent, setting my teeth on edge and my skin crawling. I turn to look at Glenn and see the same queasy look on his features and when he meets my gaze, his eyes are wide and deep, projecting the same _oh shit oh shit _that is currently on loop in my skull.

"Hey T-Dog, man, just leave it," Morales says, more like begs, and I can tell that he's no longer angry with Merle. Now he sees the gun in the redneck's hand and maybe he can see the dilation of his pupils for the distance he's standing but, either way, I can tell he's trying to diffuse this situation as quickly as possible. "It ain't worth it."

But T-Dog is having none of it and he flings a hand out, silencing his friend. "No," he says and then looks at Merle expectantly, waiting, wanting to hear what he has to say next.

Morales doesn't wait for those words to hit the air though, stepping up, arms out to his side to look as harmless as possible. Like Merle gives a shit about that. "Now Merle. Just relax okay?" he asks. "We've got enough trouble." Even from this height, the walker's moans waft up to us and with each second that passes, the glass below gets a little weaker, the crowd gets a little large, our death looms a little closer.

There's a strained moment of silence and we're all standing there, muscles tensed so hard they ache, waiting for what's going to happen next. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man in the cop uniform turn to Glenn, brow furrowed and gesturing vaguely towards the confrontation going on a few feet away. Glenn sees the look but quickly shakes his head, giving the impression to just leave it alone.

If only Merle would leave it alone but he's Merle fucking Dixon and he can't let anything go, especially with the chemicals I _know _have to be running through his veins.

"You wanna know the day?" Merle asks, prods, challenges and T-Dog meets him toe-to-toe.

"Yeah!"

Merle purses his lips and seems to chew on his words, what he's going to say, and I _know _it can't be anything good. The tension in the air boils, simmers, like a pressure cooker, a volcano, just on the brink of exploding. My eyes skim over the rifle in Merle's hands, flicker to T-Dog and land on the handgun he has tucked into the waistband of his pants. It's like two bombs are facing off and I don't know which one is going to blow first but I do know that one explosion will set off the other and than we will all be dead, blown to bits with shrapnel imbedded in our skin. The fallout will kill us. The only way we get out of this is if someone can diffuse the bombs; take the C4 and TNT out before the fuse can reach the powder. I glance over at Morales. He's not having much luck and Andrea, Jacqui, Glenn, plus Mr. Newcomer, don't look like they are very inclined to try. Their policies with Merle range from _stay the fuck away _to _stay even farther. _I remember my first official day in camp, when I first told Merle off and how everyone had looked at me like I just pulled the pin off a grenade and stuck it in my mouth. They aren't going to step in between Merle and T-Dog. They aren't that stupid.

Unfortunately, I haven't always been accused of being the sharpest tool in the shed.

Before I can actually think about what I'm going to do, I take a step towards T-Dog and Merle. And then another. And another. Glenn makes a chocked off, aborted noise behind me when he realizes what I'm doing but I shrug off his fingers when they curl around my shoulder. A tiny voice in the back of mind is screaming _what the fuck are you doing _but it's quickly eclipsed by Merle's voice when he finally figures out what to say.

"I'll tell you the day Mr. Yo," Merle taunts, making what I guess is some mock rendition of a gang sign. T-Dog's face goes tight, waiting for the end of that sentence, the punch line, and even though I had already assumed what Merle was going to say, it still make me cringe violently when the words vault off his tongue. "It's the day I take orders from a _nigger." _

That one word, that one disgusting slur, is like the breaking of a dam. The timers have run out and both bombs explode simultaneously.

"Mother fu—," T-Dog starts to shout, swinging without impunity, aiming to bash in Merle's face. But, unfortunately, Merle isn't a helpless asshole, all talk and no bite. I haven't personally witnessed his bite before now but _fucking hell. _

Merle dodges T-Dog's punch gracefully, not even phased, before he snaps the butt of his rifle out and into the other man's jaw. People start shouting as T-Dog stumbles back, blood streaming from his split lip and I'm moving before I know it. Just as I'm about to reach Merle, however, the man in the cop's uniform vaults passed me and aims his own punch but Merle sees him coming from the corner of his eye and cold cocks him across the cheek, the force of the punch sending the good intentioned man flying. I spare him half a pitying glance as he slams into the ground but that's all I have time for because that's when Merle finally spots me, four feet away and closing in.

The entire day Merle's been almost cooperative, cordial; I should of known it was only a front. The instant his red-rimmed eyes find me, the unadulterated rage and hate makes me flinch, almost freeze, but then Merle's thrusting the rifle at me and I have no more time to think.

I duck the jab and feel the wood brush the side of my head, metal pieces hot as I slide into Merle's personal space, the rifle too long to hit me now. The second I'm close enough, I shove Merle back, a hard blow to the sternum, making him stumble. I hear the clatter of Merle's rifle as he drops it but I don't turn to look, too busy blocking a punch thrown at my face. The force behind the blow is a lot stronger than I was anticipating, for a meth head Merle is fucking _powerful,_ and I can already feel my forearm bruising as my feet slide along the gravel. Merle must see that I'm off balance because his next punch is even harder and I'm only half successful in blocking it. His fist checks me across the side and I grimace, air whooshing from my lungs, but roll with it, pushing closer to him again so I can throw my own hook. He sees it coming, I can tell by the look in his eyes that he does, but I'm too close for him to block and Merle isn't one to retreat so he takes the punch as it lands, right under his chin. The blow jars my arm harshly, bone grinding against bone, but the satisfaction of seeing Merle's head snap back, seeing his feet tangle to gain his balance, well it overrides the pain nicely.

Everyone is still screaming behind us, a mixture of Merle's name, pleas to stop, and curse words. It all seems far away though, muffled by the roar of blood in my ears and the harsh pants sliding off my tongue. Merle finally rights himself five feet away, lifting his head and adjusting his jaw like it hurts him, blue eyes hazy but on fire. I try not to smirk, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

"Goddamn it Merle," I gasp, forearm, side, and ankle throbbing. I raise my hands, palms up, trying to go for a ceasefire. I want nothing more than to reach for my katana but that won't help anyone here. "Cut the shit! All of Atlanta is banging against the doors downstairs and we don't have time for—"

I don't get to finish my statement. Midsentence, Merle's face twists horribly again and then he's throwing his arm out, like a spastic twitch, but more forceful. Confusion is just starting to rise in me when I realize that his hand had been _full,_ a split second before the gravel and debris smashes into my face.

"**Shit!"**

The pain is stinging and sharp and my eyes clench shut against the dust. I duck my head and rub at my eyes, wetness already on my cheeks from the irritation. Something at the back of my mind complains about this being dirty pool, cheating, but it was _Merle Dixon. _Of course he was going to cheat. I'm just raising my head, blearily opening my eyes, when I hear Glenn shout and Merle's fist slams into the side of my head.

My head snaps to the side with the force of it, ears ringing and world slipping out of focus. I try to slide or duck away again, but Merle's smart, amazingly, and before I can take a step, his steel tipped boot crashes into my right ankle, so hard I swear it's broken, and I collapse to the ground like my strings have been cut. A ragged groan rattles in my throat, cheek pressed harshly into the ground, abrading, but I refuse to stay still, ingrained reflexes and a newly honed survival instinct making me roll over not a second after I slam into the roof. The blue-sky pinwheels overhead, dotted with swirling clouds, and I have a distinct feeling I might throw up. Before the possibility can become a reality, however, a shadow looms over me and I don't have to see clearly to know it's Merle, coming in for the kill.

Pain still pulsing through me, red-hot and everywhere, I scramble for the tanto on my hip, katana inaccessible as it digs into my spine beneath me. I've just wrapped my fingers around the hilt when Merle steps on my wrist and I'm _positive _I hear a crack this time. I cry out in pain and lash out with my left hand but Merle catches it and jerks me up, right into his fist again. Stars explode across my vision and blood coats the inside of my mouth, metallic, sharp and familiar. I'm still reeling from the blow and Merle yanks me up, a fist curled in the shirt at my collarbone, hot breath dragging across my chin.

"Told ya I'd get ya sugar tits," he growls in my face, his other hand gripping my cheeks hard enough to bruise. "Should of listened to old Merle."

I open my mouth to respond, or maybe spit in his face, when his hands wrench away from me, jagged nails leaving furrows across my jaw and collarbone. There's a heavy blow to my side, kicking the breath out of me and I roll over with a gasp, flames licking across my ribs. Blinking past the tears, I'm able to bring my vision into focus just in time to see T-Dog fully drag Merle away from me, fingers dug into the collar of Merle's vest like he's a rabid dog that needs to be subdued. If that isn't the most accurate description I've heard all day.

However, Merle's all revved up now, rage and energy coiling through his body and the second he's off of me, he's whirling and on T-Dog again, fist slamming into his sternum and knocking him to the ground. I try to keep the two of them in sight but the world tilts dangerously off its axis, spinning like a carnival ride, and my head falls back with a groan, eye clenched shut as I attempt to stay conscious.

Over the throbbing in my skull, a bone jarring beat, like a hellish drum or bell, I can hear raised voices and the sounds of bone and flesh colliding. Blood drips across my face but I can't tell where it's coming from: a split lip, a broken nose, or just otherwise torn skin. My whole face burns, feels bruised and swollen, I can't breath properly, and the appendages on my right side feel broken, wrist and ankle white hot. Black is just starting to skirt along the edges of my vision when I feel hands on me again, dragging across my arms, my shoulders. Snarling wetly, I jerk away and try to land a hit but then Glenn's voice is at my ear, urgent and frantic.

"Audrey? Shit, don't move! Oh man, oh man this isn't good. Audrey? Audrey! Can you hear me?"

I slit open my eyes against the pain and Glenn's disembodied head, pale face and wide, wet eyes, floats above me, lower lip caught in between his teeth. Fingers brush across my cheek, my temple, Glenn's fingers, gentle where Merle's were harsh and breaking. He draws them away when I hiss in pain, torn skin jostled, and I don't have to cross my eyes to see the blood on his fingertips, stark red and slick.

"Fuck," Glenn groans and dizzily I watch his eyes skip across my face, cataloguing the damage. "J…just say still Dree. Just…"

A sharp cry interrupts him and I watch as Glenn looks over his shoulder, Adam's apple bobbing as his face loses what little color it had retained. "Holy crap," he breathes and I don't like the tremble his fingers have on my shoulder, the hitch in his voice. There's real terror in the lines of his face and, after everything that just happened, to see him look even _more _afraid…

Gritting my teeth as hard as I can, I start to sit up, left hand pressed to the gravel as my right wraps around my side. Glenn whips around at the movement, mouth an 'o' of surprise and disapproval but I shake him off when he tries to stop me, gasping as pain burns through me.

"Stop it," I hiss at him, glaring through blurry eyes as he tries to push me back to the ground again. "L…let me see."

Glenn gives me this look that says I really don't want to but I ignore it and manage to get fully upright, ice crystallizing under my skin as I just barely see Merle's head and the top of his shoulders over a large pipe, gun cocked and loaded and right in what I assume is T-Dog's face.

The rest of the group is crowded around, keeping some distance, faces terrified and pleading, sure that they are about to watch T-Dog get murdered right before their eyes. Morales is hunched over with an arm wrapped around his torso, much like I am, face grim with pain and fear. Andrea and Jacqui huddle together and I can hear them whimpering from this distance, begging Merle to put the gun down.

But he won't. Merle will pull that fucking trigger without a second's hesitation if he really wants to. Fuck. For some reason, Shane's face floats across my thoughts, eyes hard and jaw taunt and distrustful of Merle but hopeful that things wouldn't blow up. Yeah. Sorry Shane. We just went nuclear.

Glenn is still trying to push me back but I struggle to my feet, nearly buckling as my ankle just _gives, _taking no weight at all. A whisper of a hiss worms its way through my clenched teeth but I shove it down and away, hobbling forward a step and praying to any power listening that I don't end up on my face or with a bullet lodged between my eyes.

"Yeah! Alright!" Merle crows, spitting on T-Dog as he stands, his back to me. The second he's off the other man, the rest of the group darts forward and drags him back, out of Merle's reach. I don't have to see his face to know he's grinning.

"We're gonna have ourselves a little powwow huh? Talk about who's in charge!" he declares, waving a handgun around, rifle laying discarded a few feet away. The man in the cop's uniform lays near it, half upright, looking dazed. Yeah. Know how you feel buddy.

Keeping my eyes trained on Merle's back, I try to approach as slowly and quietly as possible, left hand reaching up over my shoulder since my right one hangs throbbing and essentially useless at my side. I don't want to kill Merle. He's the biggest, most violent, bastard I've known in a while and ok, maybe I want to see him bleed a little, get knocked down a few notches. But I don't want to _kill _him. However loosely I use the term, Merle's still human. And there are too few of us left as it is.

Plus, even if I'm loath to acknowledge it, Merle is Daryl's _brother. _They're family, possibly the only ones left. Daryl might have said some things, I might be pissed off at him, I might _hate _Merle…but I wasn't going to kill Daryl's last living family member.

That being said, bluffing my way into getting Merle to back down doesn't sound like a bad idea. And my sword's plenty sharp; I cleaned and honed it not half an hour ago. A keen blade against his neck should cow Merle. If I could only _get _there.

Everyone is still crouched at Merle's feet, a few feet away. T-Dog is bleeding heavily from a split lip and there's a nasty bruise blooming on the arch of his cheekbone, livid against his skin. Andrea and Jacqui kneel on either side of him, propping him up, Jacqui dabbing at some of the blood on the injured man's face. Morales is still standing but barely, leaning heavily against the roof's ledge. They don't see me, not yet, eyes still trained on the homicidal maniac before them. I hope it stays that way. Surprise is the only hand I have left to play.

"I vote me," Merle says, still rambling about his dominance. I slowly extract the katana from its sheathe, the angle awkward as I have it situated for a right handed withdraw, the rasp of metal no more than a whisper. "Anybody else?" Merle asks rhetorically and I'm just about to flip the blade around, _almost _in arms reach, when Jacqui gasps, low but enough to be heard, and Morales' eyes shoot over Merle's shoulder, locking onto me.

Oh _**crap.**_

Element of surprise ruined, I try to rush forward, jerking the katana over my shoulder, keen edge glaring white in the afternoon sun. The tip cuts sharply through the air and lands against Merle's collarbone as he whirls, nicking the exposed skin and drawing a bright bead of blood.

Merle's gun hovers six inches away from my face, thumb pulling back the hammer and finger on the trigger.

For an endless moment, the two of us stand there, squared off and frozen, sweat and blood cutting trails through the grime on our skin. I'm panting harshly, though I try not to, and each wheeze feels like a knife is slipping between my ribs and twisting just _so. _My left arm trembles ever slow slightly as it extends the katana, pushing it none to gently against Merle's chest and my right one still dangles at my side, pulsing, throbbing, head and ankle pounding in time.

The scowl on Merle's lips is a harsh slash on his face, chapped lips ever so slightly bared. The gun he has pointed at my face doesn't waver, doesn't shake, and even though I can see the dilation of his pupils from here, I know Merle's in enough control of his facilities to realize he's got me pinned, blade against his throat or not.

And there's the smile that proves it, slow stretch of too dry and wrinkled skin, a perverse light flashing in opaque blue eyes. My stomach flips and my heart jitters a stucco beat against my bruised ribs.

"Now, now," Merle coos, sickly sweet. "Seems we got ourselves a hero now don't we? Well go ahead baby girl_." _He doesn't move the gun that's trained on me but he spreads his other arm out wide, taunting me. I grit my teeth and clench my fingers on the hilt of the katana, palm slick with sweat.

"Merle," I grind out, voice a tad too high to be commanding. "Enough alright? Just put the fucking gun away. The geeks are getting closer to breaking through those glass doors down stairs the longer we fuck around here. Just…_enough." _

The smile doesn't falter but it takes on a certain sharpness, a predator's baring of teeth. Merle locks eyes with me and leans into the sword I still have against him, tip digging deep, slicing through layers of skin and meeting the halting resistance of bone. I've hit Merle's clavicle.

"Democracy time ya'll," Merle shouts, addressing the group behind us. He hasn't heard a word I've said. I tighten my grip on the katana as fear begins to wrap around my heart, constricting, like suffocating vines. I don't want to _kill _this son of a bitch but he just wont back the fuck **down. **There's a bullet in that chamber, I know there is, but how many does he have left? Enough to kill us all? I wish I could ask what he thinks to accomplish, how this is going to get him out of here and how the hell he expects to stroll back into camp with none of us in tow, but it's pointless. Merle isn't thinking. This is the meth or the coke or what the hell ever is in his system talking. There's no logic, no thought process. It makes him that much more dangerous and I try to keep my gaze locked on Merle's face, just so I don't have to look down the barrel of his gun. "Show of hands! Me, as king hoss." His grin widens for a moment and he spares a glance over his shoulder, finger still poised to shoot me in the face. "All in favor?"

No one answers him and the silence is deafening. Blood is still dripping down my face and I hear Glenn's anxious shifting behind me, T-Dog's muffled groans of pain behind Merle, the backdrop of snarling geeks underneath it all. Merle scans the rest of the group, waiting for a response and then nods after a moment when he receives none.

"Alright. If ya'll wanna play."

Before I can blink, Merle whirls around and lunges for me. My arm jerks in surprise, a reflex lashing out, and I feel the tearing of skin, a minute resistance and then a give, right before slams his fist against my nose, sending me careening into the roof's stone ledge, cement scraping harshly against my back.

My head swims and I hear the clang of metal as the katana collides with the floor, the screams of anger and the sound of scuffled feet on gravel, like someone had started forward to help but then stopped sort. I'm barely standing, draped across the roof's edge, but I've retained enough higher functioning to hear Merle's next words and actually be able to process them.

"Come on now! Let's see 'em! Hands up, ya'll! All in favor?"

There's another moment of silence and when I loll my head forward I can see the blurry images of uplifted arms, skin colored, blurred stalks. My stomach roils in protest at the movement and I have to close my eyes to stop myself from hurling.

"That's good," Merle crows and I hear the crunch of gravel as he moves. "Now, that means I'm the boss right? Well then—ah ah ah!" There's another scuffle on the gravel and Merle's teasing takes on an angry undertone. "Don't ya move gook! Not unless ya want some metal in yer teeth." (1)

I groan and try to lift my head, succeed in almost falling on my ass. _Glenn. _Please, please don't do something stupid. My friend must hear my mental plea because Merle doesn't say anything else to him, just begins to laugh and I hear his slow, measured steps approach me.

"Well then," he repeats, like he's giving some important speech. "If I'm the boss, I think I better start makin some 'xecutive decisions don't you?" It's a rhetorical question and no one answers, no on breathes. I squint open my eyes and come face to chest with Merle, vision blurred by the blow to the head and the other man's proximity. I try to squirm away but I've got nowhere left to go and when I try to reach my tanto, left handed since I can't seem to get the right one to work, the angle is too off, to awkward, and Merle's hand is around my throat before I can think of an alternative.

The pressure is tight, excruciatingly so, and I immediately scramble at Merle's hand, nails trying to dig into his skin, eyes bulging and lungs heaving. Merle doesn't seem phased by my meager attempts to escape, he just grins crookedly and lifts me up by my neck, windpipe collapsing under his fingertips. I kick my feet out, try to find some purchase, but Merle has me off the floor, the backs of my thighs just brushing the top of the ledge behind me.

"Looky what I caught," Merle chuckles, tilting his head and smiling like he's just found something extremely fascinating. "A pussy cat with no claws."

"M…merle!" I gasp out sharply, red and black dots dancing before my eyes. I can't breathe. _I can't breathe! _

The edges of my vision begin to dim, go gray and then quickly black, but suddenly, there's _blue, _deep blue, opaque and hazy. Merle's hauled me up close to him, nose to nose, and I can see the murderous light in his eyes, the unrestrained eagerness. He's been waiting for this opportunity for days; weeks. I suddenly realize it's probably why he came on this trip in the first place. I should have caught it the moment he started to be cooperative, almost complacent.

"I told ya to stay away from my baby bro," he snarls quietly, right up against my cheek. I sputter and choke, running out of oxygen. I try to get my legs under me but he has my left one pinned and my right's racked with pain. "Told ya, didn't I? Ya thought ya could pull one over on me? Huh?" He tightens his grip and my struggles get weaker, my vision dimmer. All I can see now is the crazed blue of his eyes and the vague flash of yellowed teeth.

"Last mistake ya ever gonna make baby girl," Merle whispers against my ear, like he's confiding a secret. "Should have know: no one fucks with a Dixon. _No one. _Especially not an uppity city cooze like ya."

I gurgle something out in response, probably a plea, I can't tell anymore, and Merle draws away from me, a blurred image of skin and sweat. Sharp, jagged nails dig into my throat and then I distantly feel him lift me higher and I'm dangling, tops of my calves and bottom of my knees pressed hard against cement.

Merle cackles, a far off sound, and then I feel myself tipping backwards, _over the edge of the roof. _I try to start struggling anew but I don't have enough oxygen and my attempts are feeble at best. I hear screams and shouts, and stories below me I hear the moans of walkers, but over all of that, louder than the blood pulsing in my ears, is the sound of Merle's voice, low, and quiet, and taunting. Like a child, crooning a song.

"_Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed." (2)_

I'm rapidly fading but those words resound in my skull, ricocheting and if I my lungs weren't already empty I would have been left breathless.

Those words…that poem…

The quarry lake flickers in my mind's eye, clear blue water dappled with sunlight, the warm scratch of a stone beneath my thighs and soft leather between my fingers. I read that poem just over a week ago, the day Amy and I got in that stupid fight. I remember it perfectly because that was…that was the day I started the bet with Daryl but…but I never read that poem to him. Countless others but never that one, though I can't remember why. I had read it to myself, I thought silently, but if Merle knows it, and I assume he doesn't read poetry for himself, that means…that means he's been watching me a lot longer than I thought.

That means Daryl and I never had a chance.

….

_**Daryl. **_

The older man's name suddenly stamps itself behind my eyelids, a searing brand. Blue eyes, sandy hair, and dirt imbedded in his very skin. Scowling mouth and harsher words, glare that could melt glass and the worst attitude in the state of Georgia. The hunter, the jackass…my _friend. _Not partner, fuck that shit; he's my _friend _and I will be god **damned **if I die before I win our fucking bet.

And I _sure _as hell am not going to die at the hands of his fucking brother, weak and whimpering; helpless.

Just as my vision narrows to the barest pinprick, a thin flicker of gleeful blue eyes, I drum up the last vestiges of my strength, scrape the bottom of the barrel, and push everything I have left into my right leg, pain be fucked, kicking out as hard as I can, shin connecting solidly with Merle's groin.

The hand on my throat squeezes so hard my windpipe is more than likely crushed but then a guttural groan of pain rattles in my ear and the grip gives, just _that _much, and I have enough energy left to get my left leg under me too and **shove. **Merle's hand wrenches off my throat and his body stumbles back from the force, cursing and sliding on gravel. No longer pinned by the bulk of Merle's body, I start to collapse, but the momentum of my kick has me careening backwards, an unanticipated effect, and my ass scrapes across the cement ledge as I start to topple off the roof. There's no time to react, no time to grapple for a hold on something, and I clench my eyes shut, ready for the weightlessness of falling and hoping that I impact with the cement hard enough to kill me.

Just as I'm about to plunge to my death, however, hands suddenly claw at my forearms, my thighs, and then an arm wraps around my waist and hauls me _forward, _straight into someone's chest and we go sprawling to the ground, my head smacking harshly into the sharp ridge of a collarbone. For a split instant, my mind's still on **fight **mode, _MerleMerleMerle, _cycling through my head and I start to thrash, gasping, flinging my limbs out as hard as I can. But then fingers latch onto my wrists and the pain in the right one wrenches a groan from me, just as Glenn's voice lands wetly on my temple, lips pressed against the skin there.

"Audrey it's me! It's me! Calm down," he gasps and I go limp against him, coughing, raggedly trying to draw breaths through my damaged throat. Glenn lets go of my wrists, making me hiss in pain again, and then one of his hands cradles the back of my head, pressing me into his shoulder, drawing me close to his chest, making soothing noises. "I got you. I got you."

Even though his voice is high and reedy, scared and shaking, it's _**Glenn. **_Glenn who shared candy with me; Glenn who laughs when I can't the pronunciation of _hello _in Korean right; Glenn, my friend, who just fucking pulled me off the edge of a building and saved my life. I might not be able to think much past that but I still realize what he just did. Still gasping, chocking, I curl the fingers of my left hand in the fabric of his shirt and do my best to gurgle out a thank you. The syllables come out mangled, unrecognizable, and _fuck _they hurt but I think he gets what I was trying to say because he holds me tighter.

I'm still reveling in the fact that I'm alive when an enraged yell tears through the sound of my jagged gulps of air and my entire body goes rigid because fuck, Merle's going to shoot me now, not toss me off the roof, and I brace for the impact, curling against Glenn's chest to try and shield him.

The shot never comes. Instead, Merle cries out again, this time in shock, a little bit of pain, and there's a loud _thud _from a few feet away. Not having the energy to lift my head, I turn it ever so slightly to the side, eyes barely open, left one almost swollen shut.

Merle's laid out flat on his back not five feet away, blood trickling from the side of his mouth. Shock sparks through me as I see the man in the officer's uniform standing over the redneck's prone form, face twisted as he throws away Merle's own discarded rifle. Uncomprehending, I watch as the man squats over Merle, knee pressed into his turned cheek, deft hands snatching up Merle's wrist and slapping a ring of metal around it. Not pausing for breath, the man clips the opposite handcuff to a rusty pipe a foot away, hauling Merle up and shoving him against an AC pipe, fists clenched in the collar of Merle's vest.

Merle grunts and tries to twist away, snarling something at the man but I don't catch the words, hearing fuzzy and muffled, like I'm submerged under water. My vision flickers suddenly, like a TV going out, unfocused static, and I have just enough time to think _oh crap, _to have half a second to try and stay awake,before my eyes roll back in my head and I sink into unconsciousness, the last image I see being the man in the cop's uniform, crouched over Merle, Merle's own gun pressed tightly against his temple.

* * *

><p>Daryl's hours away from bumfuck nowhere and half past the edge of the world. The only things for miles around are trees and dirt and the creatures that lived there, animals that scampered and insects that crawled. Anyone one else would be scared shitless; Daryl can't think of anything better.<p>

It's just about noon and the sun sears down from directly overhead, baking the very air. Daryl leans against a tree and takes a healthy swig from his canteen, the water tepid and slightly gritty but it slakes his thirst nonetheless and in this weather, he'll take what he can fuckin get. There's dirt caked beneath his jagged nails and the back of his neck is burned a stinging pink; his sleeveless shirt is drenched with sweat and a bone deep weariness aches beneath his skin. He's been movin nonstop since he stormed out of camp yesterday and he rubs tiredly at his eyes more often that not now, orbs itchin up a storm. But he's so fuckin _close _and he'll be damned if he gives up now.

Thirty yards away, a fawn drinks from the stream Daryl had just refilled at, oblivious to the hunter lounging in the shadows, watching. It's a small thing, thin and almost sickly; which is precisely why it is still alive. Daryl had thought bout shootin it the second he saw it, two hours outside camp cuz some meat is better than none, but really, it would be more hassle than benefit. And besides, why kill the thing straight off when Daryl could track it back to its herd and kill Bambi's mama instead? Might have to drag the damn doe miles through the woods but it'll keep them fed longer than some dried scraps of squirrel, that's for _damn _sure.

Daryl flicks his eyes over to the fawn again, finding it nestled down in the long grass along the stream's banks, feeding. It's lazy and complacent and it doesn't look like it's goin anywhere anytime soon. Son of a bitch. Growling under his breath, Daryl stoops down and snatches a fallen switch off the ground, unsheathin the knife at his hip in the same movement. He makes himself more comfortable against the tree, shoulder slippin into a slight groove in the bark, and sets about whittlin the stick in his hand, crossbow hot on the length of his spine. It's mostly a mindless activity, any dumb ass with a dull blade could do it, but Daryl is tired as hell and he needs somethin to keep his hands busy, keep his brain turnin.

The next half hour passes slow as hell and soon Daryl has a small pile of whittled, lethal lookin sticks at his feet. They're too small and thin to be arrows but this was always supposed to be just somethin stupid to keep him awake so the hunter doesn't give that much of a shit. Every so often, Daryl will let his eyes flicker up and out, trackin the location of the fawn, but it seems to have fallen asleep a few minutes ago so the glances become fewer and fewer. In any other situation, Daryl would be comin out of his skin by now, irritated and impatient, but huntin was different. Huntin, if ya did it right, took time and skill and patience; principles drilled into the younger Dixon's skull at a young age. He could track a buck for days if he had too; it didn't faze him. He'd wait this fawn out and when he saw its mama, that's when he'd strike and not a moment before.

"_You're such an impatient bastard. Ya know that Daryl?"_

Those unexpected words have the hunter pressin too hard on the stick in his hands, the wood givin with a muffled crack. Daryl curses and snaps his head up, lookin to see if the fawn had heard him, but the small deer sleeps undisturbed, speckled brown flank risin slowly with deep, measured, breaths. Shit. Dodged a damn bullet. Beratin himself, Daryl bends over and picks up yet another brittle branch, startin all over again, the paper-thin shavins floatin harmlessly to the ground. He refuses to acknowledge the words, concentratin on the warm wood in his hands, the hot edge of his knife, _slice, cut, shave, switch. _It works, for a little while. It never lasts though, no matter how fuckin hard Daryl tries. He'll push and push and push the thoughts away, bury them _deep _down, but after a few silent hours of nothing more than the dry rustle of summer grass and the echoes of his own heartbeat, they come crawlin back to the damn surface again, refusin to be ignored.

That stupid, goddamn, _**kid. **_

Daryl bares his teeth in a silent snarl and his carving becomes more aggressive, violent, pent up anger bleedin out of him like a poison. Even after all these miles, all these hours, the hunter can still feel those assholes' accusin eyes on him, branding hot into his skin. Can almost _taste _the fear in those brats' eyes, wide and limpid, sour in the back of his throat. Can feel all their hatred slidin across his skin like oil, seepin into his pores. It was all that fuckin kid; all her damn fault. He wishes he never found her in the first place, wishes that he never chased her, never offered to bring her back to camp. He wishes he never met Audrey damn Bennett.

And then he gets pissed off cuz somethin roils in his gut, balkin against all those thoughts and he doesn't _know __**why. **_

Anger burns through him, a red-hot flare. The heat's been under his skin for a full day, smolderin deep down, flickerin embers, but it leaps up now, scaldin flames. The grip he has on the knife is his hand tightens and then a stab of pain filters through his rage. He snaps his gaze down, expectin to see bright red blood.

He doesn't; at least not any that's fresh. Teeth clenched tight, Daryl flexes his hand, the spilt and bruised skin of his knuckles ripplin with the movement,l pinpicks of pain. He thinks that the knuckle of his middle finger might be broken, it's swollen and slightly inflamed, but he'd cracked it hours ago, somewhat puttin it back in place. It's the best he could do. And maybe he deserved a lil pain anyway.

Merle is gonna kick his teeth in when he gets back. Daryl might even let him. Sure, his brother's an asshole but he was always talkin shit; that was nothin new. Daryl layin him out is a rare occurrence though and it was all cuz of her. Goddamn Audrey. She's been the source of every single problem he's had in the last few weeks. Why he hasn't brought in big game. Why those _people _have been up his ass. Why Merle is pissed as all get out now. All her fault. She's made his life **hell **and that's a damn feat since it's the apocalypse.

There's this part of Daryl, a small part, miniscule and shoved to the back of his mind, that tries to point out Audrey wasn't all bad. Tries to bring to attention images of the kid hunched over his dryin rack, blood on her wrists and concentration in the lines of her face. Tries to recall bright smiles and sparkling eyes and the taste of candy on his tongue, the sound of quiet laughter and liltin words. But that small part of Daryl's mind is ignored; he won't acknowledge it. It had been a mistake to talk to that stupid…it had been a mistake. Daryl never should of done it. He'll let Merle deck him a few times so he learns his goddamn lesson. That kid was nothin but trouble. And he was done with her.

Resolved, Daryl's just thinkin about how he's gonna approach Merle on his return when he lifts his head, a perfunctorily glance, and sees that the patch of grass on the creek bank is bare, empty. The fawn is gone. Cursin, Daryl snaps to attention and throws the stick in his hand away, shovin his knife angrily into its sheathe as he starts off towards the stream, ready to start trackin again. Fuckin A. All that damn kid's fault.

* * *

><p>The first thing I become aware of is <em>pain. <em>And a lot fucking of it.

It's like I'm submerged in Jell-O at first; everything feels suspended and weightless as I float in that precarious void between awake and blissfully _not. _I'm swimming towards consciousness; I can feel it, rising towards the surface. But it's slow and halting and I'm weighed down; two strokes up and three back. I'm being pulled back down then, farther and farther, sinking towards the black bottom when a loud _**bang **_filters down through the depths and sinks its hooks into me, hauling me, bodily, towards reality.

When I break the surface, it's like I'm inhaling glass and my stomach vaults into my throat. The pressure's too much and I have a serious case of the bends, every _fiber _of my being screeching in agony, joints popping and muscles tearing. (3) It's almost enough to drag me under again but, through some cruel twist of fate, I'm still awake, gasping and floundering like a fish on dry land.

Through the hazy of my pain, a voice filters through and I blearily think _Glenn, _but the voice is deeper than that, the accent wrong, more of a drawl than Glenn's sharper cadence. Recognition flits across my mind but it skates away before I can grab it, leaving me listening to a voice I can't place.

"Audrey? Girl, you awake? Guys! Guys, I think she's wakin up!"

There's a commotion that follows the words, more voices and the sound of stomping feet, the rattle of loose gravel. The last sound, clattering around in my skull, is what finally makes me pry open my eyes, hissing and blinking harshly against a stark white light, searing into my retinas. The blinding light only lasts for a moment more and then it's gone and my eyes can focus, unfocusedly staring up at the shadow blocking the sun.

T-Dog's face looms over me: bruises and abrasions on his cheek, a cut on his lip and liquid concern in his **way** to close brown eyes. Sluggishly, I finally place the voice that had been calling me as his and I try to open my mouth, pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth, but all I can taste is sandpaper and all I can manage is an indistinguishable, painful rasp.

Fingers card through my hair suddenly, gentle but shit even _that _hurts, and it's Jacqui that speaks to me next. "Audrey, sweetheart. Just relax. Relax honey we got you. We got you." Her tone is sweet and coaxing, soothing, and I feel my eyes drift shut again, body unclenching.

"_Audrey it's me! It's me! Calm down! I got you. I got you."_

Glenn's voice, frantic, relieved, scared, echoing across my memory. A cement ledge. A ten story drop. Walkers. Pain. Guns. _**Merle. **_

My eyes fly open with a ragged gasp and I begin to thrash again, throwing off stilling hands and pleading words and the chains of pain that bind me. Head throbbing, swimming, side in flames, I struggle upright, eyes casting widely around, fear and adrenaline soaring through me, my sluggish mind trying to catch up.

_MerleMerleMerleMerleMerle_

I finally spot him five feet away, sunburned and sweaty…and shackled to a pipe. My chest heaves and I stare at him wide eyed, uncomprehending, until the dizzy image of the man in the cop's uniform crops up in my mind, knee to Merle's cheek, gun to his temple.

"Take a picture bitch," he snarls and the gravel in his voice makes my skin crawl. "It'll last longer."

"Give it a rest Dixon. No one asked to hear your _lovely _voice."

Morales suddenly kneels down beside me and I turn to face him, blinking owlishly at his familiar face, still racked with confusion. "M…Morales," I say, or at least try to. All that comes out is a sharp edged croak. I wince at the searing pain and unconsciously reach for my throat, fingertips dancing across deep grooves and tender skin. "W…what—?"

The older man spares me an odd look. It's one part sorrow, one part pity, and two parts guilt. I'd tilt my head at him but the stiffness in my neck hinders me.

"How you feeling mijita?" he asks. I furrow my brow at the question and he must sense I don't understand because he continues. "You passed out. We…we got you in the shade but you've been out cold for bout half an hour."

Passed out. Ok. Things start to click in my head, a scattered jigsaw puzzle. I…I remember…I remember the shots, the walkers, the newcomer. And then…the rush to the roof. Tension follows, and heated words. T-Dog's twisted features and Merle sneering _nigger. _Punches and pain and…

"I remember," I rasp and then I look around, see Glenn shuffle forward lip caught between his teeth; see Jacqui and Andrea and T-Dog, all looking relieved; see the man in the beige and brown uniform, a few feet back, rubbing at his neck in an awkward fashion but seeming similarly relieved. He catches my eyes and gives me a tentative smile, worry imbedded in the fringes. "It doesn't look like I missed much."

T-Dog scoffs and the look on his face is pinched and tense. He takes off his hat and rubs at his scalp, a tired motion. The CB lies discarded in his lap. He doesn't spare it a glance. "Yeah, you're right about that," he huffs and gestures around us. "Still stuck in this death trap."

I purse my lip and nod, grimacing when both motions hurt and hissing when the grimace pulls at my torn lip and then just sitting still when the hiss scrapes out of my raw throat. Holy fuck. I feel like I've been put in a meat blender. Glenn's hand is suddenly on my forearm and I glance up to see he's drawn closer, sat back on his calves, gaze darting across what I know are the bruises and gashes on my features before they settle on my eyes. "Hey," he says quietly, carefully, like if he speaks any louder he'll hurt me. "Ju…just take it easy alright? We'll find a way out of here."

Even though that is becoming increasingly unlikely with each second that passes, I appreciate the effort Glenn's giving. Nodding, albeit slower and softer, a bare bob of my chin, I pat his hand and give him the biggest smile I can manage, which isn't much. "Course we are. Now, help me up so I can help out will ya?"

Glenn's eyes boggle out of his head and he starts to stutter. Andrea is the one to tap me on the shoulder and give me this wary look, saying, "I think you should stay seated. You uh…you…"

"Took quite a beating," I finish for her and for some reason I'm grinning when I say it. It's not funny, not by a long shot, but I can't stop smiling. I think I have a concussion. "Yeah I know. Was kind of there. Doesn't change the fact that we need to get the hell out of here. Might be bruised now but if we don't find a way out of this building, we're all gonna be dead."

The older blonde winces at my blunt statement and I feel Glenn's fingers on my arm clench down slightly. Everyone shares a loaded look but no one tries to stop me when I grope behind me with my left hand, latching onto the lip of the roof's ledge T-Dog and I are propped up against, hauling myself up, slowly, and suddenly with the help of five other sets of hands. I really should have stayed seated, would have if we were in any other situation, but we're not and even though I want to curl up and die at this point, I'm not going to sit on my ass.

Even though we take it slowly and even with all the help I can't even get fully upright. A full minute later and I'm hunched over at the waist, leaning heavily on the wall behind me and on Glenn, teeth gritted so hard they're chipping, and my whole body in flames. I have my right arm pressed tightly to my side, trying not to jostle that same wrist, all my weight thrown onto my left leg as my right one throbs. Glenn's babbling in my ear about sitting back down but I shake my head, trying to ignore how the world wobbles.

'_Deep breath. Take a deep breath, Audrey, even though it hurts like acid in your throat. Take a deep breath and get down to business or you're gonna end up dead and everyone back at camp is going to starve.' _

I repeat this to myself over and over and over again, until it's a constant track in my mind. In reality, I probably shouldn't be this lucid, this logical. Our simple scavenging trip has been thrown into a blender, Merle just tried to _kill _me, literally _kill _me, and now we still might die anyway. I should probably be in hysterics or something like that. I don't know. But I'm not. I'm calm and thinking clearly. This might be shock settling in; in fact I think this is precisely what it is. Shock and some funky defense mechanism that I have when shit goes south. It's happened before, too many times to count. Later, if there is a later, I will most likely break down but now, in the battle zone, when there are things to do and miles to go, I can just…detach, shove things away and focus on what needs getting done. I'm not particularly sure if this is healthy or not but if it gets me through the day well hey, who's complaining.

With this mentality, and also with the spare thought of I am _not _going to let Merle think he's taken me down for the count, I manage to finally straighten my spin, breathing quickly as shallowly through my nose so as to try and appease my aching throat. Dots dance in my vision, spatterings of red and black, but besides that, oh and the little addition of spiraling pain, I'm all right. In some ways, I guess I'm lucky. For one, I could be fucking dead right now. So just being alive is a plus side, even if it doesn't feel like it at this exact moment. Secondly, although I _feel _like mincemeat, I don't think I'm as fucked as I'm assuming. I'm conscious so that means I can't have _that _bad of a head injury, possibly just a slight concussion. My face is just one throbbing mess but I can see out of both eyes, the left one is half swollen but I can still see clearly, mostly. Lifting my left hand, I slowly probe along the planes of my cheeks, shift my jaw from side to side. No broken bones there. A split lip and some bruises but it could be worse.

Like my nose for example. Just a slight brush and I hiss harshly, squinting against the pain, eyes watering. Ok, well that's definitely broken. Glenn and Jacqui flutter anxiously at my side, asking what they can do to help but I wave their hands off. Taking a deep breath, ouch, I wrap slightly shaking fingers around the bridge of my nose, lightly feeling around the break in the cartilage. It's high on the bridge, jagged under the skin and pulsing. I almost laugh because it's the exact same place where I broke my nose before, almost ten years ago. This probably will hurt just as much now as it did then.

"A…audrey? What are you—?"

I don't let Morales finish his question. Not thinking about it, because if I do I might chicken out, I lift my chin and stare straight ahead, taking another deep breath and inadvertently meeting Merle's eyes over Andrea's shoulder. The man glowers hot and ugly, pissed and hateful, and I do my best to scowl right back, defiant as hell, when I jerk my fingers roughly and snap the broken cartilage back into place.

A groan is punched out of me, rattling against my clenched teeth, but I don't double over, trying to shake off the painful sensation. I blink open my eyes and everyone's wide eyed around me, looking at me like I just pulled out my own tooth. Smiling gently, I ghost my fingers once last time across my face, making sure everything was it it's rightful place, before I drop my arm.

"Broke my nose when I was younger," I explain, running the back of my wrist across my upper lip, dried blood flaking off my skin. Not attractive but efficient. "Had to right it then too." That's not _strictly _true. Sensei offered to set it for me; I was just too much of a stubborn dumb ass to listen to him.

T-Dog breathes out something that might be _Jesus _but I ignore it and turn to Morales instead, learning quickly how to deal with the shifting dizziness. "All right so anyway. What progress have we made in getting the hell out of here? I don't know about you guys, but I'm kind of tired of this particular scenery," I say, gesturing out vaguely to the Atlanta skyline. Morales looks like he wants to say something else, eyes skitter across my face, the blood that I can feel coagulating on my temple, underneath a particularly smarting gash, but he keeps all comments to himself, saving them for a later time. Instead, he sighs heavily and rubs a hand through his curly hair, weariness in every line of him. I can't help but feel relieved and grateful when the attention finally shifts of _**me. **_

"Not much. The streets are still packed." He turns around to face the city, craning in head to look down below. His face twists. "The vehicles we came in are to far; we'd never make it down _this _street, the alley, and the other street. We thought about going under. Sewers, ya know? But that was a bust. We just came up here to think about something else when you uh woke up."

Sewers…well that's clever. Too bad it didn't pan out, though I'm not a big fan of dark, enclosed spaces. Humming, I turn my head slightly to glance down at the street, my stomach swooping uneasily at the thought that I had almost became concrete paint. One look though and my brow furrows in confusion. "Hey…does the crowd seem…_smaller _to you guys?" I ask, turning my head to address the group. "I thought there had been more before."

As one, the group flinches and goes pale. "What?" I question.

Andrea swallows harshly, exhaling shakily. "The…the first plane of glass broke. Lot of…lot of the geeks are crowding in the space between that and the second door."

My eyes widen and I feel a tremor run the length of my spine. I push it down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. "O…ok. So…new plan. Ideas?"

Everybody kind of looks at each other for a moment, stuck at an impasse, before the man in the cop's uniform steps up and holds out his hand towards Morales. "Can I see the binoculars?" he asks quietly. The other man tilts his head in bewilderment but unhooks the item from where it's hanging against his chest, handing it over silently.

The man, I should learn his name, nods in thanks and then goes over to the ledge, pressing himself against it, elbows balancing on the cement as he raises the binoculars to his eyes. Curious, everyone follows suit, falling into line behind him: T-Dog, Morales Andrea, Jacqui, me, albeit slowly and gingerly, and finally Glenn. I'm gazing at the back of the man's turned head, too queasy to look down again, when I feel a soft brush on the skin of my upper arm, right below the edge of my sleeve. I turn to find Glenn looking at me intently, a furrow between his eyes. Cocking my head, I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong, or what's _specifically _wrong since our lives are one big fucking mess right now, when something gently touches the side of my face, cool and light. My lips part in surprise but Glenn keeps wiping the blood off my skin, pressing slightly in certain places and pulling away quickly when I wince. After a minute, I slowly maneuver my body so my left hand can reach around and rest on top of his where it lies against my temple. Glenn starts at the movement, eyes flickering towards my own, but I smile softly in thanks and take the wet rag from him, shifting so it's pressed against the bloody left corner of my mouth. He blinks and I watch his Adam's apple bob before he suddenly looks past me, intent on something completely different. I turn back to see what that is.

The cop, _former _cop, just like Shane back at camp, has lowered the binoculars and from his profile I can see a frown of concentration etched on his features. He clears his throat and then shifts to look at Morales, passing the binoculars to him. "That construction site," he says, pointing down the street as Morales puts the lenses to his eyes and looks. "Those trucks—they always keep keys on hand."

I frown and try to find where he's pointing, a knot of unease building in my throat when I realize I have to _squint _slightly to see the site. It's all the way down the block, the far end. Too far to reach unless this guy's gonna rip off his shirt and reveal his Superman or Spiderman. Or some sort of bird hybrid. Like that one mutant on the X-men…anyway. Morales seems to seem to think the same thing because he drops his arms with a shake of his head, jutting his chin out towards the street.

"You'll never make it past the walkers. Wouldn't make it five damn feet," he says.

Shoving away from the ledge, the man rounds on Glenn, pointing at him almost accusingly. I feel Glenn go rigid at my side and I kind of want to step in front of him. "You got me out of that tank," the man tosses at Glenn and I'm turning with a bemused curl to my lip, _tank?,_ but the younger man is moving away from my side, hands fluttering around, looking agitated.

"Yeah but they were _feeding," _he grouses, shuddering on the last word. "They were distracted."

"Could we distract them again?"

I'm narrowing my eyes at the man, because exactly _how _are we supposed to distract a horde of walkers and _live, _but another voice speaks up, unwanted and loud. "Right! Listen to him; he's on to something," Merle chatters up from the ground, voice overly cheering and supportive. All of us turn to him with a scowl and I particularly want to shove my foot down his throat because more than being irritated by his general presence, I hate the thrill of residual fear that sparks down my spine. "A diversion. Like on 'Hogan's Heroes.'"

Jacqui snaps something angrily at him but the rest of the group turns away, ignoring the hostile redneck.

The former cop starts to question what draws the walkers, pointing out that they are drawn to sound, obviously. I try not to roll my eyes because if they were deaf as well as dead bastards we'd be home free. Glenn says something off to my side but I don't quiet catch it, wincing to myself as I shift my hip to lie more heavily on the roof's ledge. Quietly, and with gritted teeth, I try to rotate my ankle because, plan or not, we're gonna have to move soon enough and I need to know how much I can move. The pain is instantaneous and I go stiff, not breathing. But, after a still moment, I shift it again, ignoring the flares of agony and determining mobility. It hurts, it hurts really fucking bad, but beyond the pain I discover that the ankle itself can't be broken, there's no popping noise, and when I glance down, there's no flash of white sticking out of my skin. So, not broken. Sprained then but…as I rotate it more and more, the pain lessens somewhat, not so crippling. The sprain can't be that bad. I think it's more bruised from Merle's kick than anything, the blow exacerbating the overexertion that the muscles had already been experiencing. This means, even if it makes me hurl, I can move on the leg if I need to. It's not like those first days out of Dalton. If I can just grit my teeth and bear it, I can walk, possibly even run. That will definitely come in handy.

Suddenly, I catch a snippet of the conversation going on a few feet from me. "They can tell us by smell?" the man is questioning and I hear Glenn scoff.

"Can't _you?"_

I glance up in time to see Andrea nod and look at the former cop in a kind of _duh _fashion. "They smell dead. We don't," she points out bluntly. "It's…pretty of distinct."

The man hums slightly and his brow pinches again in thought, lips pursed as he glances around at the five of us. His eyes may be bloodshot and he looks more than a little haggard but I can see the gears turning behind his ice blue eyes, calculating and contemplating. He takes a deep breath, and spares a glance at the street, holding the look like an answer is going to jump out at him from the sidewalk. After a moment, he turns back to us with this fire in his eyes: one part determination and three parts desperation.

"Then we just have to smell like them," he states simply, like he's telling us the sky is blue and the grass is green.

Morales gives a nervous and confused chuckle and cocks his head at the man, most likely thinking this man is batshit. I'm kind of inclined to think the same. "I know the end of the world doesn't exactly make for the most hygienic conditions," he laughs. "But I don't think any of us smell _that _bad. We ain't _dead._" **Yet** is the word he leaves unsaid but we all hear it loud and clear anyway.

However, what Morales just said makes me pause, mind turning.

_They smell dead. We don't. _

_It's pretty distinct. _

_Then we just have to smell like them. _

…ok. Either I've gone a completely different direction towards batshit or I might actually understand what this guy is getting at.

Clearing my throat, I grab everyone's attention. I lock eyes with the man across with me and cluck my tongue, tilting my head towards the street. When I speak, I address Morales. "We aren't dead," I say and quickly continue before people can interrupt. "But that doesn't mean we can't play the part."

Bewildered murmurs follow my statement but there is surprise in the former cop's ice blue eyes, and a little bit of admiration. I grin. Ok, so I did understand what he was saying. That just means we are both likely fucking batshit.

"What the hell are you sayin girl?" T-Dog interjects, wide eyes trained on my face.

I shrug and gently shove off the ledge, taking a tentative step forward towards Glenn. White flames dance up my leg but I grit my teeth and hobble forward another step and another, bridging the distance. "It's not like walkers are geniuses," I talk as I make my slow progression forward. "They're basically animals: instinct and a handful of senses. No thought to back those things up." I arrive at Glenn's side breathing slightly raggedly and dodge his helping fingers, lifting my left hand to tug off his cap. He makes a mumbled protest but I ignore him. "So, what happens if you trick those senses, that instinct? The walkers got nothing. Blind, deaf and dumb. Then all we gotta do is play the part."

"And what part is that mijita?" Morales asks, still not seeing my point.

Chuckling dryly, I flip Glenn's cap in my hand and reach up to pull it onto my own head. Tugging on the bill, I meet everyone's eyes with a humorless smile.

"Whose up for a little costume change?"

* * *

><p>There are protests all around, arguments and explosions that this was idiotic and insane and would <em>never <em>work. Morales bickers at the former cop's back all the way down the stairs, angry and voice high pitched. I could hear the blatant fear in his voice even from my position at the back of the group, riding piggyback on Glenn. When the cop had made for the stairwell, everyone fell into step behind him, not because they agreed but they were trying to talk _sense _into him. Too bad this is a completely nonsensical reality we live in. Refusing to be left behind, I had started after them, biting through my tongue as I hobbled. Glenn had tried to make me stay back but I wasn't having it. I wasn't about to let this go down without me and I sure as _hell _wasn't staying on the roof with Merle. I'd roll my self down the ten flights of stairs first. Seeing that I wasn't kidding, Glenn had groaned and before I could say anything, stooped down before me, facing away. I had balked and told him he couldn't carry me all the way down but he cut me off, scooting back and grabbing the back of my knees, slowly tugging me to him. No other place to go, I had gingerly crawled onto his back, careful of my ankle and wrist and side. Still hurt but I managed to stay on and Glenn started forward.

We're at the bottom now and my 'steed' is panting quietly. I feel guilty and mutter something about me being too heavy but Glenn shakes his head, saying I'm actually really light but ten flights was ten flights. Glancing down at my fingers as they bob below Glenn's chin I can't help but think that the appendages look skeletal, bony and pale and unhealthy. I tear my eyes away and don't look again.

Glenn sets me down on the same rickety table in the back storage room that I had been lounging on when he and his 'guest' had made their surprise appearance, following the herald of echoing gunshots. I give him a grateful smile and he nods before darting back into the main room where everyone is grabbing supplies, still arguing. While the group's heated words echo back to me, I drop my eyes to my lap, really looking at my right wrist for the first time since I woke up. The skin is tight and more than a little swollen, varying shades of red and rapidly darkening purple and molten blue. My fingers tingle, numb, and every minute twitch of my arm send knives through my nerves. The angle of the bone doesn't look off though, even under the swelling, so I don't _think _that it's broken. Steeling myself, I try to rotate it as I did my ankle. And instantly, I'm sent leaning off the table, bile rushing into my mouth and dribbling down my chin, acidic and burning, like the tears blurring my vision. There isn't much to come back up though, mostly water, so I dry heave for the majority of the fit. When I'm able to breathe properly, I sit up and wipe at the tears on my cheeks. If that's not broken than it's most _definitely _fractured. Big time.

"Sweetie?"

Sitting up with a gasp, I lift my head to see everyone standing in the doorway, dressed in what look like lab cots and rubber gloves that encase their forearms. Concern is blatantly in every one of their features, even the new guy's, and I fidget, uncomfortable in my last vestiges of pain.

"I'm fine," I rasp, still tasting bile. "Wrist is just a tad worse off than I thought."

It's silent for a moment but then the man who had proposed this idea in the first place steps up, touching Morales' shoulder and then Glenn's as he moves towards the door. The rest of my group looks like they want to come and coddle me, hesitating, but the man, although he has appeared kind for the most part in the small time frame we've known him, isn't so inclined to waste time on some stupid girl that got her ass beat. There are more pressing matters at hand. Coughing lightly, I jerk my chin after the man and after one last look, Morales and Glenn follow him to the door, Glenn with a bat in his hands and Morales flexing his empty fingers.

After the three men share a look of understanding, it takes no more than a handful of seconds. The door is thrown open, Morales and the cop leap outside, Glenn on their heels, and then they are all right back in the door, gasping and pale, plus one. Morales and the man drop the walker's body in the middle of the room and take a step back. No one moves for a moment. I can hear three distinct gulps in the silence. But, it's not really silent; out on the main floor the geeks are still hammering against the glass doors, howling. I don't know if that's what sets everything into action, but the moment of stillness abruptly ends. The man walks towards me and picks up the helmet that rests at my side, a sheet of plastic curving in to protect the face. He also hefts the iron crowbar that's leaning on the table into his hands and turns to face the axe that's hanging in the glass case across the room. I furrow my brow as he begins to walks towards it.

"H…hey. Wait."

Six pairs of eyes flicker towards me and I blush slightly when I see a thin irritation in the newcomer's. "You…the axe is messy and the weight of it…no offense but you seem ready to keel over already. U…use my sword." The katana is currently strapped to my back, having picked it up from the dusty rooftop before we came down. Thankfully, I didn't see any damage to the steel.

The man considers me for a moment, eyes flickering up to the hilt that's now protruding over my right shoulder instead of my left, but then he shakes his head. "I wouldn't know how to use it," he says quietly. I can't help but laugh and the sound is slightly off, slightly hysteric.

"Sorry to break it to you, but you aren't exactly performing brain surgery. It's a blade. You just stick it in and cut."

Everyone flinches at the bluntness of my statement, even the man and he's the one who was going to use an _ax _to literally chop this body into pieces. Jesus. Sighing slightly, I shift to the edge of the table, feet dangling inches off the floor. "Nevermind. I'll do it."

"Audrey," Morales intones from a few feet away. There's pity in his gaze. "Mija there is no way you are going to be able to use that sword. You can't even touch your wrist without vomiting. Hefting that thing and doing…_this," _he gestures vaguely to the body at our feet. He shakes his head. "Until that wrist is healed, you won't be able to use that steel at all."

Narrowing my eyes at Morales, at the very slight tone of condescendence in his words, I do a quick scan of the distance between everyone and I and then grope behind me, with my left hand, fingers wrapping around a slightly flat rubber ball that I had playing with earlier. Pulling it in front of me, I bounce it once in my palm, twice, and then throw it up towards the ceiling. The second the ball rolls off my fingertips, I dart my hand over my shoulder and grasp the katana's hilt, unsheathing it smoothly and snapping it horizontally in front of me, just in time to cut the falling rubber ball in half. Wide eyes gape at me and I'd feel impressed if I hadn't been doing _that _particular move since I was fourteen, bored and trying to show off for Sensei.

"Guess it's a good thing I'm ambidextrous huh?"

Ignoring the way Morales' jaw falls open, I turn back to the other man, raising an eyebrow in question. "Well? What do you say Mr…?"

"Rick," the man replies and ah, _finally, _a name. He purses his lips at me and his gaze is calculating, considering. He looks on the verge of saying yes when all of the sudden his eyes narrow, zeroed in on my face.

"How old are you?"

I blink at the sudden question, because what the fuck, but answer nonetheless. "Seventeen."

The man, _Rick, _goes slightly pale at my response, blue eyes stark in his face and…oh my god. _Really? _I have to deal with _this _again? The riot act from one cop is enough for me thank you very much.

Scowling as best I can, I slide off the table, landing on my left leg and walk towards the prone form on the floor, slipping past Rick without a glance. "I'm not a child," I toss over my shoulder, the words feeling stupidly redundant in my mouth. I mean I just took a beating from hell and I'm still moving about so come on! "Besides," I say when I arrive at the walker's body, gazing down at the rotten flesh and moldy clothes. "It's not exactly the first time I've shed blood." My words are quiet, slightly bitter and are a lot stronger, a lot more confident, than I'm really feeling. In all honesty, I might just hurl again.

'_Deep breath. Take a deep breath, Audrey, even though it hurts like acid in your throat. Take a deep breath and get down to business or you're gonna end up dead and everyone back at camp is going to starve. Shove it all down. Don't feel just do. Do it for Amy. For Carl and Sophia. Morales' kids. Deep breath.' _

I twirl the katana's hilt in my hand, feeling oddly numb, considering where to start, neck and cut down or groin and cut up, when sturdy, calloused fingers wrap around my shoulder and tug me ever so slightly away, making me teeter on my left leg. Off balance, I lurch to the side and bump into someone, _Rick, _whose hand is **still **overlapping the bones of my shoulder. He's right behind me, close enough to feel the heat radiate off his body, and when I turn, his blue eyes are distorted by the sheet of plastic between us. I send him a bewildered and irritated glance but he cuts me off before I can argue.

"Look. I don't mean to…offend you but I just don't feel right about this," he says and when I open my mouth, he holds up a quieting hand. "And not just because of your age. You're injured, badly, though you try to down play it. And if this works, we need to get out fast so you need to save some strength. Right?"

Pursing my lips, I narrow my eyes at Rick and consider him, his words, the logic. He's right though, even if I want to defy him if only on principle. But that would just be stupid, waste more energy and time that we don't have. Just like I had to swallow my fear and pain, now I'll swallow my pride. Our lives may depend on it.

After a moment, I finally nod and ease out from under Rick's hand. He looks grateful, relieved, and I can't help but laugh suddenly as a thought occurs to me. "What?" Rick asks, confused. I shake my head.

"Nothing, nothing. It's just…you kind of remind me of someone, a man back at camp. You just have a little more…tact I guess."

Rick still looks puzzled but I wave my hand dismissively and hobble back to the table, wincing as I haul myself back up. "Never mind. Forget I said anything. Continue."

Looking like he'd rather not, Rick nods and steps back over to the glass case and smashes it without preamble, pulling the axe out and setting the crowbar down. From there, he's all motion. He hefts the axe up and sets his jaw, squares his spine and moves close to the body, eyes hard. He spares all of us a glance, as if to ask permission, and when he receives what he was looking for, he takes a few steps back, hauls the axe over his shoulder and takes an almost running start.

Everyone shuts their eyes and cringes away, even I wince, but the sickening crunch never comes because, at the last second, Rick skitters off, panting, dropping the axe to hand limply at his side. We all give him a curious look, I'm thinking maybe he just can't do it, when he suddenly slips the mask off, throws the axe to the side, and takes a knee, rifling through the walker's pockets. A vague sense of disgust wells in me as Rick slips out a worn looking wallet because really? He's gonna steal that shit? What is money even worth nowadays? Nothing but possible kindle for a fire and shitting kindle at that. But Rick surprises me, surprises all of us, because instead of pocketing the money, he slips out a slightly bent license and begins to read.

"Wayne Dunlap," he starts quietly and something twists in me as I realize he's stating the walker's name. I want to speak up but he's still talking, hushed facts and details of a ghost long gone. "Georgia license. Born in 1979. He had $28 in his pocket when he died and a picture of a pretty girl. With love, from Rachel." He hands the license to Glenn and cradles the old photo in his fingers; like it's so fragile it might crumble into dust if he breathes just a little too harshly. I'm shaking my head minutely, trying to warn Rick, to stop him, but he's still staring at the picture, trembling ever so slight. When he looks up, his eyes pass over all of us but I don't think he sees a single one of our faces. "He used to be like us—worrying about bills or the rent or the Super Bowl." He stops and tucks the picture into his own pocket, taking the license back from Glenn and doing the same. He leaves the money and the wallet on the ground. "If I ever find my family, I'm gonna tell them about Wayne."

The group looks misty eyed about his impromptu speech, moved and inspired, but I'm still shaking me head and I don't realize I've made some noise akin to a snort until five other pairs of eyes round on me, confused and almost disapproving. I flush under the scrutiny and duck my head.

"What is it?" Morales asks and I shake my head, shrugging with one shoulder, unable to meet their eyes.

"Nothing." When I look up and no one looks convinced, waiting for a real answer, I sigh and drag a hand through my hair, a nervous habit that makes me grimace as it pulls fresh wounds. I look down at the walker on the ground, seeing hair and rotten skin and blood stained clothes. I don't see Wayne Dunlap whoever that had been. He's been dead a long time. "It's just…it's…_easier _if you don't think of them as human. At least in my experience." I shrug again and tear my eyes away from the ground, looking instead to the opposite wall, still not meeting anyone's gaze. "Especially if you have to draw blood."

Silence meets my statement and I don't move, don't turn my head. Not even when there's a quiet shuffle and the sound of metal grating against cement as Rick picks up the axe. Not even when Glenn says, "One more thing—he was an organ donor." Not even when there's a powerful grunt and a bone jarring thud, following the sound of squelch of giving flesh and breaking bones. I don't move and I don't turn my head.

Because even if the walker on the floor is a male and 5'10, with short brown hair and ratty old Keds, all I can see is the glimmer of long golden hair streaked with blood and amber eyes turning dull and rheumy as a moan vibrates through my skull.

* * *

><p>The work is arduous and more than a little disgusting, even if I've detached myself as much as possible. It's the smell that mostly gets me: festering and cloying, fetid stink coating slimy on my tongue. More than once, someone gags as we coat Glenn and Rick in guts and gore; at one point, Glenn even vomits. At first, I had balked at Glenn going out, <em>again, <em>but Rick had volunteered and no one else stepped up until Glenn had shakily raised his hand. I'm still not comfortable with it but I try to keep up a running dialogue with Glenn as I work, I don't even know what I'm saying, but it doesn't matter. It's just chatter, something to fill up the silence, keep his mind, and mine, off of the fact that I'm smearing walker blood all over him so he can stroll out onto the street and walk amongst them. Glenn doesn't look like he's particularly listening to the _exact _words I'm saying but he seems grateful for the effort nonetheless, smiling at me wanly as I talk.

We finish our sordid paintings in about ten minutes and I start to strip off the protective gear Morales had thrown on me: the gloves and the coat and even another mask. I'm covered from head and toe basically but Morales had said I needed the extra protection since I had open wounds. I'm extra careful not to get _any _blood that's not my own on me and when the dirty garments are off, I drop them on the floor and kick them away, Morales, Jacqui, and Andrea following suit. T-Dog had already divested and made his way back up to the roof, something about trying to contact camp again. I think he just didn't want to be here when we throw Glenn and Rick to the wolves. I don't think I want to be either.

Taking a deep breath, I turn back to Glenn who's standing alone near the door, pale and quiet, a crowbar clenched tightly in his hands. Rick is saying something to Morales and the other two women so I walk, ok limp, over to my friend silently. He watches me approach with wide brown eyes but doesn't say anything when I finally get within arm's reach.

"I don't think red's really your color," I say, eyeing up and down, putting a hand under my chin and trying to look thoughtful, playful, when really my lungs feel inside out.

Glenn barks out a startled laugh even though it's really not that funny and I watch as some of the tension eases out of his shoulders. I drop the façade and smile gently at him, feeling a knot build in my throat. Behind me, I hear Rick finalizing last minute details and my stomach flips. I take a step closer to Glenn and slowly lift his cap off my head.

"Try not to bring back any more trouble huh?" I whisper. Glenn shakes his head.

"Believe me, I've had enough. I'm keeping my head down from now on."

Biting my lip, I raise on tiptoes and press a quick kiss to Glenn's cheek, fleeting and soft, just like when I darted out onto the street to clear the way what seems like a lifetime ago. Usually, I'm not this…affectionate I guess is the right word but it's this habit of mine, picked up from Mathias a long time ago, something to ward off nerves and fear with friends. I hope Glenn doesn't mind. When I pull away, I lift my hand and place the cap back on his own head, tugging it into place.

"Haeng un," I whisper and Glenn's eyes widen. (4) I can't help but grin and blush. "Did I say that right?"

Chuckling quietly, my friend looks surprised but…pleased. "Actually, you did. Can't believe it."

I roll my eyes at him but suddenly, he's all serious, grave, scared eyes looking back at me. I swallow sharply.

"Haeng un to you too," he says and then Rick's stepping up and I'm stepping back, biting the inside of my cheek as hard as I can, refusing to let tears fill my eyes as I turn on heel and walk out of the room, unable to stay but hardly able to leave.

It takes me nearly ten minutes to heave myself up the stairs alone and by the time I reach the door to the roof, I'm bent over gasping, sweat running into my eyes and blood replaced by pain and fatigue. It's another two minutes before I can right myself and by then I hear Morales, Andrea, and Jacqui, racing up the stairs. Not wanting them to be caught being a roadblock, I push open the heavy steel door and blink in the blinding sunlight.

T-Dog's sitting on the ground under the shade of the cement ledge, fiddling tiredly with the CB again, ignoring Merle who's, not so quietly, cursing at him. He looks up when he hears the door open and beckons me over. I get there as quickly as I can.

"How'd it go?" he asks when I'm close enough and I shake my head.

"I don't know. I left a few minutes early to get up here in time to see them hit the street. Morales and—"

At that moment, the stairwell door bursts open again and the rest of the group sprints onto the roof, Morales yelling at T-Dog to try the CB again. T-Dog gives him half a look that says, '_What's the point?", _but he does it anyway. The other man rushes over to the ledge and I stumble to his side, craning my neck to look down at the street, heart slamming in the back of my throat.

For a moment, I don't see anything except shambling walkers. But then Morales, who has the binoculars pressed tight against his eyes, jabs his finger down and says, "There." I follow the line of his finger and, blissfully, see the red of Glenn's cap, right in the middle of a crowd of walkers, unharmed. I sag against the wall in relief, even when Merle begins talking shit behind us because Glenn, and I see Rick too now, is safe. For now. Please let it stay that way. Let us have a little luck.

But, of course, the universe can't allow for that. I mean, I'm Audrey Bennet, good luck can _never _come my way or the world's like to just spontaneously combust. Three things happen quickly in as many minutes. First, the CB finally crackles to life, weak but there, and T-Dog jumps on it, shouting into the device, trying to reach camp. What I think is Dale's voice responds, shaky and dim but, no matter how T-Dog shouts and twists the knobs on the CB, we quickly lose the connection, getting only static. Then, as we spin back to the street, searching frantically for Glenn and Rick, on edge with the ominous failure, I notice that it's harder to spot them and not just because of the distance. It's darker, too dark for a clear Georgia afternoon. That's when I look up and see the rain clouds, hear sudden thunder rumble across the sky just before the heavens open. And, finally, when I drop my gaze again, starting to hyperventilate with fear, I see Glenn and Rick, surrounded by geeks; geeks whose senses have been returned to them, thanks to the rain, and who are suddenly rounding to the newly revealed meals in their midst. I can hear their snarls and growls from here as Glenn and Rick start running, swinging and cracking skulls.

It's like I'm watching this fucked up horror movie that I can't pause, can't stop, can't rewind and am forced to stare until the events play out.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck. Nonononononono!" I exclaim, tearing my hair, eyes cranked wide, unable to blink. Morales curses sharply and I hear Jacqui whimper beside me. Tears leap unbidden to my eyes and quickly spill over, hidden by the rain. Oh my god. Oh my god. Glenn's going to die. Glenn's going to _die _and I let him go out there, _again. _Glenn is going to _**die!**_

Except, miraculously, amazingly, he doesn't. And neither does Rick. They make it to the fence that borders that construction site and clear it with little problem, landing safely on the other side. I crow with delight and relief, pumping my fist into the air, ignoring the pain it causes, and even though some walkers climb the fence, tumble to the other side, it doesn't matter because Glenn and Rick have jumped in the cube van they had been aiming for, the engine roaring to life and the tires squealing as…as Rick flips the truck around, knocking over traffic cones as he does, and drives the opposite way down the street.

I'm still stunned that they made it to the van safe and sound, even with the mishap, so when Andrea gasps next to me and moans out, "They're leaving us," it takes me a minute to actually process what she's said. When I finally do, I balk at the notion and denial runs hot through my veins. No. Glenn just wouldn't do that, no matter if Rick _is _driving. He wouldn't just leave us like that. He wouldn't. He…wouldn't leave us, _me, _to die. Nobody else thinks along the same lines though because Morales starts smacking the ledge, begging them to come back, Jacqui hissing something else just as desperately. I keep my eyes locked on the street, refusing to believe them, concentrating on the spot when Rick turned the corner, trying to understand what's happening. But my head's spinning, still woozy from the climb up and Merle's shouting loud obscenities behind me, screaming at us, throwing loose gravel at the back of our thighs to gain our attention.

Snarling, I whirl on Merle, fear and confusion making me high strung. "Goddamn it Dixon! Shut the _**fuck**_up so we can concentrate!"

Merle blinks at me, shocked that I've addressed him so bravely, especially after he thought he put me in my place, but I don't have the patience for him, not now. He actually falls silent as I spin back around, towards the street, looking for that white cube van. There's a two minute window in which there's nothing, no contact, no sightings, and doubt is just starting to crawl into the dark corners of my mind when the CB in T-Dog's hand crackles to live and, in a severe case of déjà vu, Glenn's voice explodes out of the tiny device.

"Those roll up doors in the front of the store, facing the street—meet us there and be ready!"

For a split second, we all look at each other in surprise, incomprehension, eyes wide and jaws flapping, but then it _clicks _and I whirling around, hobbling as fast as I can towards the stairs, slinging on Glenn's pack as I go, mine being down stairs in the storage room. The thing is heavy, rattling with cans and boxes of food, strap digging painfully into my left shoulder and I gasp in pain as I stumble, landing heavily on my right foot. Behind me, I can hear the commotion as the rest of the group follows my lead and snaps into action, shouting out orders and tugging on their own packs. I ignore them and grit my teeth, trying to steel myself for the fucking _sprint _that I'm going to have to perform in order to get down stairs. I set my right foot down, test the give, bite my tongue so hard I taste blood, and start forward quickly, gasping raggedly when each step brings a blinding pain. I've made it down half a flight when the door bangs open behind me and frantic voices rush forward, bottlenecking when I block the way. Morales quickly has a hand on my elbow, telling me to let him get in front and he'll carry me down but I _know _that he can't do that. We have half the supplies up here and he can't carry them _and _me down ten flights. Morales is in his late 30s with a bad back. We wouldn't make it.

I shake my head. "No. You can't carry me. I'm fine. I'm fine. Let's just go."

Not listening to his response I throw off his hand and actually _jump _forward, landing wobbly, on one leg, three steps down. I hear Jacqui call out in caution but ignore her and do it again, and again, faster and faster, down the stairs. My vision swims and I stumble more often than not, banging my knees and probably fucking up my left ankle as well but _fuck it. _I will not be a burden. I came on this trip to help and even if I have to _throw _myself down the rest of the stairs, I won't hold us up. Jumping and hopping is not as fast as running and Andrea and Morales cut in front of me to go get the rest of the backs but I'm making excellent time and if there's tears streaming down my cheeks and blood in my mouth so fucking be it if we all live.

It only takes me four minutes to reach the bottom this time and I slam into the bottom wall at the foot of the stairwell, my momentum taking me too far forward. Luckily, I manage to save jarring my right wrist but my side still screams in agony. Panting, I shake it off and jerk my head at Jacqui, telling her to go on ahead. The older woman shakes her head sharply and switches the two packs she's carrying to her opposite side, pulling my left arm over her shoulder and slipping her arm around my waist. I gaze at her wide-eyed, dizzy with pain, but she only smiles gently and together we stagger towards the roll up doors, geek moans echoing across the floor.

My hearts racing and I'm barely standing upright by the time we get to the metal doors but we're _here, _Andrea and Morales panting beside us, all of our bags and supplies piled at their feetand I can't fucking believe it. We're all looking at each other with the same expression of, _Is this real? Are we really going to make it out of here? Are we really going to survive? _I'm braced up against the wall, wheezing, dots in my vision and I have this horrible suspicion that I might pass out again when the roar of an engine sounds drastically close, followed by the crashing of glass farther out in the building. All of us basically shit ourselves because holy fuck the doors have finally given and where the hell is T-Dog with Merle and—

"_Shit," _I screech when a figure bolts out of the hallway and into the room the same second the roll up door vibrates with an insistent pound. T-Dog gasps as he slides to a stop beside us and Rick calls, "**Open up!"** Morales and Andrea yank on the pulley system to wrench open the door and the second we see Rick and the gaping back of the cube van, Jacqui's shoving me forward as everyone else starts flinging bags into the back. I still have Glenn's own pack on my shoulder and it's hard as hell to heft myself up with only one leg and one arm but I jump as high as I can and twist at the last possible second, landing solidly in the bottom of the van, the breath knocked out of me, pain the only thing I'm aware of. The ceiling of the van swims unsteadily above me but then everyone is piling in, Rick vaulting past me and into the driver's seat. I'm lifting my head, struggling into an upright position when Morales slams the door shut, just as a handful of walkers slam against the back of the van, their fists echoing on the metal. Rick slams the gear into drive and peels out, swerving onto the street and speeding away.

It's silent for a full two minutes as we all pant and gasp and wheeze but when I finally have enough oxygen in my lungs to keep my heart pumping and actually formulate words, I turn to glance around the van to make sure everyone is safe, that we actually got out of that death trap alive. It's when I'm looking at everyone's faces that I subconsciously count heads and…we're missing people.

"Where's Glenn," I rasp out, still tasting blood in the back of my throat. I'm feeling my blood freeze in my veins, each individual cell, but Rick quickly assures me that Glenn's fine, that he's driving the car that had drawn off all the walkers with the alarm. I don't know what alarm he's talking about cuz I hadn't heard anything over the shredding of my lungs and the screaming of my nerve endings but if Glenn's safe and sound than I'm not really particular about details.

Which brings me to the other missing occupant. My mind's still sluggish and fuzzy but I have enough control of my facilities to turn to T-Dog, a question in my eyes and a half hope in the back of my mind that Merle's taking another vehicle or hanging onto the back of the van or…_something. _

T-Dog meets my gaze for half a second but then his eyes skitter away and his jaw clenches in…in **guilt. **"I dropped the damn key," he says roughly, voice cracking as he references the handcuff key that Rick had handed him.

Disbelief settles in my gut, roiling and pungent, and I can only gape. Everyone else shares a glance but no one says anything, keeping quiet, unremorseful. I should be too. Merle beat the crap out of me, tried to kill me, tried to kill us _all…_but guilt and shame and a pain that's not physical settles deep in my bones.

We left him behind. I…can't believe it. It's like a dream, a nightmare, surreal and farwary. Out of anyone…Merle was the last person that I would have thought wouldn't make it back. After everything, it's no more than he deserves. But, despite how I felt about the man…Merle was a human being, loosely but true. And…and he is...oh god _was, _Daryl's brother, last of kin, _family_.

_**Daryl…**_

I bite my lip and turn my face into the curve of my shoulder, feeling nauseous as Rick speeds away from Atlanta, down dead streets and passed abandoned ghosts shambling blindly towards infinity. I close my eyes and feel the darkness pull me down again and this time, instead of fighting, I let it, hoping that in oblivion, I won't feel so guilty, so ashamed that I'm alive and…

The darkness engulfs me and I know nothing more.

* * *

><p>The sun is just starting to set on Daryl's second night away from camp when he happens upon a dirt packed back road, an abandoned truck stranded in the middle of it. He's wary about approachin it, cross bow raised and cocked, but as he circles the vehicle, he discovers he's alone. There's no trapped walker in the cab or the bed; everything is empty and quiet, save the cicadas in the trees. He was going to keep walking, the fawn he's trackin is slowly makin itself through the field on the opposite side of the truck, but somethin catches the hunter's eye through the wide open door of the vehicle. Daryl keeps one eye on the fawn as he shifts forward and leans in, arm rooting along the bottom of the cab towards the glint of glass he had seen.<p>

It take's only a minute to locate it and with a quick pull, Daryl's holdin a thick, full bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey, the amber liquid swirling inside the glass. He blinks at the find and contemplates leavin it, he has no bag and he's gonna have to drag some kill back to camp in the end but, at the last second, he draws the bottle towards him, a small smirk stretchin across his face. Quickly, he makes a sort of half sling with the rag that's tucked in his back pocket and secures it around his waist, slipping the bottle inside and tying it down. Certain that it ain't gonna go tumblin to the ground, Daryl nods and then starts after the baby deer, anticipation already burnin hot beneath his skin.

His brother might wanna fuckin kick his teeth in for the blow Daryl gave him but Merle can't turn away a good drink and even if his brother's a grade A asshole, Daryl's gonna make his life easier and make amends. Hopefully, he can get Merle lazy drunk again and they can just shoot the shit instead of beat the alcohol out of their systems.

Either way, Merle's gonna love this shit and Daryl can't exactly say he's frownin on the opportunity to drink his problems away.

He just hopes he gets fucked up enough to forget the color _green _and the sight of freckles against pale skin.

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><p><strong>TBC. <strong>

**(1) Gook- derogatory term for one of Asian descent**

**(2) Poem by Emily Dickinson**

**(3) The bends aka Decompression sickness. Usually happens to deep-sea divers who surface too quickly. **

**(4) Haeng un- good luck in Korean**

****So what did you guys think? Plot wise, canon wise, POV wise, I wanna know! :D Just press the little blue button below ^^****

****(that kind of rhymed...I didnt mean it to xD)****

****Next chapter Daryl finds out the fate of his brother and angsty drama ensues! :) SO stay tuned!****

****Until next time!****

****~Shadows****


	18. We All Assume the Worst the Best We Can

**Chapter 18 guys :) and Daryl's back! Sorry this took a bit longer. I had the WORST writer's block with this. But it is pretty hefty so i hope that makes up for it :)**

**Just pointing out again that I'm switching POVs within the chapter again. Hope you enjoy! Please remember to review! I love you guys! :D**

**Disclaimer: This story is written for fun purposes only. No profit is being made. I own nothing :(**

**Warnings: Coarse language and a few racial slurs**

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><p><strong>Chapter 18: We All Assume the Worst the Best We Can<strong>

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><p>The next thing I am aware of is the sensation of gentle fingers brushing along the side of my face and Jacqui's voice floating, disembodied, through the darkness.<p>

"Audrey? Audrey wake up. Wake up; we're back."

My brain's fuzzy and disoriented, uncomprehending, but when I blink open my eyes and lick my dry lips to sluggishly respond, the pain that suddenly racks my body is enough to bring me fully online, clear and lucid and damn how I wish I wasn't. As I draw a ragged breath, my lungs hitch, unable to fully expand without my side blooming in pain, and dots dance in my unfocused field of vision. I grimace and a groan dies in my chest as the expression sets a dull fire across my skin. Mother _fuck. _I'm going to fucking _kill _Mer—

Guilt abruptly slams into my chest at the thought, knocking the air out of me, sending me spinning, the image of the older man chained to a rusted out pipe under the baking Georgia sun, walkers clambering up the narrow staircase, flashing behind my eyes. Nausea burns in my belly and I can't help but close my eyes and grit my teeth against the sensation, reeling. _Shit._ Shit. Shit. **Shit.** I had been stupid to think sleep could save me from this, this overwhelming, all consuming…shame. A part of me screams in the back of my mind that I have nothing to feel regret over, that I am not to blame. T-Dog's the one that dropped the key and I was ten stories below when it happened; I couldn't have done anything. And even if I could have, I was under no obligation to even try. Merle Dixon tried to fucking _murder me. _It was premeditated and damn if he wasn't finding joy in it at the time. If I would have gotten my sword and lashed out and lopped off his head, stabbed him through the heart, it would have been purely self-defense. It would have been perfectly justified. Hell, I am justified in celebrating now; completely and utterly. No one would blame me; in fact many would probably join me.

But I just fucking _**can't. **_

At least not completely.

Yes, a part of me is glad Merle's gone. That's a guillotine poised above my neck that I'm not sad to see leave. But while I believe in punishment where it's due…all I can think about is rotten teeth and jagged claws and Merle's flesh being rent in two, screams of agony rising in the air as he's devoured, bound and chained like a fucking buffet. And then I think of Daryl, blue eyes that I know can shine with pity, scowling lips that I know can smirk and laugh, calloused hands that, despite what others might think, I know have the ability to be gentle, reaching out to little girls who drop their plates and who get lost in the woods. Bile simmers in the back of my throat and the backs of my eyes burn with an emotion I can't identify, too tangled and messed up to pinpoint.

"Honey?"

Jacqui's voice has me opening my eyes again but this time, I don't think about the pain clawing through my veins. I don't think about walkers or Atlanta or the name Dixon. Instead, I ground myself in the warm brown irises of her eyes and the concerned cadence of her voice and force myself to pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth and answer her. I tell myself to man the fuck up.

"Y…yeah," I manage to rasp out, throat feeling like I had swallowed serrated glass some time in my sleep. "I'm awake."

The older woman seems relieved at my statement and gives me a gentle smile. Distantly, I feel her warm fingers trail across my jaw before retracting, folding back to her side. I blink and flush as I realize I'm half draped across her lap, shoulders pressed into her thighs. "Welcome back," Jacqui teases but I can tell the sharp edge of worry still skating through the words. I try to smile at her in reassurance but I'm sure the affect is barely more than a wince at best.

Taking several shallow breaths, I begin to struggle upright, making sure to keep my right arm tucked against my chest, careful not to jostle it. The motion sends little starbursts floating across my vision but I feel Jacqui's hands against my shoulder blades, coaxing me up. When I'm fully upright, I wheeze slightly and turn to look at Jacqui, and Andrea who's sitting beside her, with a grimacing smile. "It's great to be back," I cough out, going for joking but coming out pathetic. The two women give me similar frowns of pity, lines of anger deep around their mouths and eyes. For the first time, I wonder what my face must really look like. I'm guessing ten kinds of fucked up. Great.

"Ahh. Sleeping beauty awakens," a voice says behind me and I crane my neck to see Morales half turned in the passenger seat, another relieved grin meeting my gaze. I stick my tongue out at him but flinch when pain lances through my mouth. Confused, I pry my left hand from the floor and gingerly bring it up, tentative fingers searching. My tongue burns and when I press careful fingertips to the source, they come away a watery red. I furrow my brow at the sight and realize I must have lacerated my tongue at some point. That would account for the metallic taste, like pennies pressed against my teeth.

Morales frowns at the sight, the teasing light abruptly gone from his normally kind brown eyes. His round, bearded face looks suddenly exhausted. He seems to have aged ten years. "We're almost there mijita. Just a few more minutes."

I blink at his statement and look past his face, squinting at the bright afternoon light streaming through the windshield. The dusty dirt road that leads to camp meets my gaze and by the incline and some key landmarks I realize he's right. We're no more than two, three minutes out. Something akin to unease rises in me but I turn to face the back of the van before it can reach the base of my throat and choke me. I try to tell myself it's because craning my neck to look forward is painful. I know it's a pitiful lie at best.

Suddenly, I become aware of an obnoxious wailing, high pitched and repetitive. It grinds against my eardrums and sets my teeth on edge. I try to find the source by looking out the windshield again but my side flares red hot in protest and I hunch over with the pain, hissing quietly between clenched teeth. Concerned fingers trail across my back, my shin, but I shake my head in dismissal. "What the hell is that racket?"

Andrea's worry lined visage swims into my line of view. "What? The car alarm? That's just Glenn."

_Glenn? _I furrow my brow and go to ask what the hell she's talking about when I suddenly remember Rick's voice, assuring me Glenn was safe and sound, driving a vehicle that had drawn off the walkers so we could all get out. I vaguely recall him mentioning an alarm.

"Oh," I say because there's nothing else to be said. Jacqui reaches out and pats my knee lightly, the only part of my body that's not engulfed in pain.

"Don't worry sweetheart. Everything's fine. Just relax."

I try not to snort at the notion. Relax? Yeah right.

No one says anything else as we push the homestretch back to camp. T-Dog is stonily silent on the other side of the van but I can't bring myself to look at him. I'm not necessarily blaming him; I…just _can't. _Andrea is curled up closest to the door, chin propped up on her knees, head tilted to stare past me out the windshield. The older woman looks tired, exhausted. I don't blame her. First, she runs through the city collecting supplies, then she nearly dies, and in order to survive she had to sprint down ten flights of stairs and haul god knows how many pounds of food and other items into a van, all while dodging clawed hands and snarling teeth. My eyes slide over to the pile of bags that are strewn across the van's floor, piled against the door. And she succeeded. Triumphed. I think she has the right to be ready to drop. I think we all do.

Before long, Rick hits a bump in the road, a steep one, and I know we've arrived. Everyone else does too. I can see it, feel it. Jacqui sits up a little straighter beside me; Andrea lifts her head and smiles, big and wide and relived; Morales mutters something in Spanish and whatever it is, it sounds happy, elated. The car alarm had cut off a few moments ago which means Glenn's stopped, means that…we're _back. _It's like the tension bleeds out of us, draining away. The worry unhitches from our muscles; the sharp burn of panic is soothed and balmed. Unconsciously, we've all been holding our breath since that first gunshot in Atlanta and now we're finally breathing again. We're back. Safe and sound and victorious. We've got enough food to last for a damn good while. No one's going to starve. Even with the sickening churn of guilt deep in my gut, I can't help but smile when I think of Carl's face, Sophia's, and how they won't be getting any thinner any time soon.

Rick slows the van to a stop and shifts it into park. He kills the engine. Everyone takes a collective breath. Exhales. And then Andrea begins to laugh. Loud and exuberant and free and when I meet her gaze, she's grinning from ear to ear. There are tears in her eyes but I can tell they're from happiness and relief and Jacqui soon joins in, leaning over to wrap her arms around the other woman as they laugh together. It's freedom and it's joy and it's this statement of _holy shit we are still fucking alive. _Soon, my own cheeks hurt from reasons other than cuts and bruises and I'd laugh if I knew that the action wouldn't hurt so badly. As it is, I settle for just grinning like a loon, watching as Andrea pulls away from Jacqui and fumbles for the door, letting out a joyous whoop as she heaves the metal barrier up and out of the way, jumping to the ground and rounding the vehicle without any hesitation. Distantly, I hear her call out, "_Amy!" _followed by a familiar sounding screech and half a strangle sob. My grin dims into a soft smile. God. We're really fucking back.

T-Dog shuffles out of the van next, casting half a glance to the stack of supplies before shaking his head, apparently deciding to leave unpacking for later. Instead, he turns to help Jacqui out, holding her hand so she can slide into the hot afternoon sun. Jacqui flashes him a small smile and then looks back at me, tilting her head.

I flush and want to wave her on, tell her to go greet the rest of camp but I know she won't listen. And, more than that, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to get out on my own. My eyes trail down the length of my body and land on the swollen knob of my ankle. Well, there go my dreams of being a track star.

It takes some maneuvering and a lot of gritted teeth but eventually I'm standing on dirt and dried grass, a little out of breath and with sweat on my brow. Standing in the warm sun makes me suddenly realize that my clothes are still damp, clinging uncomfortably to gashes and bruises hidden along my body. I wince as shifting makes the fabric chafe against damaged skin. This is going to be a fun clean up.

"You alright?" T-Dog shifts in front of me and his brow his furrowed deeply, the bruise on his cheek a molten purple. I avert my eyes and shrug slightly, going for a reassuring smile.

"Better now that we're back. Nothing some R&R and some Advil can't fix." Jacqui frowns beside me and by the grip she has on my elbow, I can tell she doesn't buy a word I'm selling. I suddenly feel smothered, T-Dog on my left, hands hovering to catch me like I'm about to swoon or something, and Jacqui on my right, all mother hen and bleeding concern. I'm grateful and touched but I feel a little overwhelmed, used to being in the background, not the center of attention. Something else is eating at me, twisting darkly in the back of my mind, but I don't inspect it, don't want to. At least not now. Now, all I want is a second's worth of peace and quiet before I have to face the group and just about choke on Shane's _I fucking told you so. _

Pulling away from their helping hands, I lean against the van's warm side and wave at T-Dog and Jacqui. "Hey, why don't you guys so greet everyone? I'm pretty sure Lori and Abby are dying to see you Jacqui," I say, trying to coax them along. The two blink at me and even T-Dog opens his mouth to argue but I cut him off before he can get a word out. "I'll be right behind you. I…I just need a minute to take a breath is all." Which isn't a lie. It's not the whole truth but it isn't necessarily a lie.

Jacqui purses her lips but T-Dog's the one to catch my eye and before I avert my gaze again, I see he understands. "Come on Jacqui," he murmurs. He steps around me and places a hand on her shoulder, drawing her away. "Let the girl breathe. She'll be fine."

Fine is a relative term and I see the older woman thinks the same but after a moment of silent tug of war, she relents to be led away. Before she goes, however, she leans over and squeezes my left hand in a comforting gesture. "Call if you need anything sweetheart," she says and I nod, telling her I will.

When the two of them round the front of the van, I let the reassuring smile I've been wearing for what feels like forever slip away. Taking as deep of a breath as I can, I close my eyes and slump against the warmed metal at my back, trying to balance on one leg and with one arm pressed against the van so I don't topple over. In the distance I can hear jubilant crowing and laughter and though I _do _want to join in, I also revel in this silence because, let's face it, the second I step into everyone's line of sight, I won't be getting any silence or peace for god knows how long. I wish that no one would freak out when they see me. I mean, I know I look like I got tossed into a wood chipper and then possibly a meat tenderizer but hey, I'm _alive _right? These are just superficial wounds and, honestly, I've kind of had worse. Not that any of them know that but still. I'd say I'm not a child but I think Shane might actually self-combust if I say that after he takes a good look at me. I royally screwed the pooch on this one.

The sound of creaking metal and a tired sigh makes me snap open my eyes and turn to locate the noise. Rick is stepping out of the van's driver seat a few feet away, hand rubbing at the back of his neck and an exhausted grimace on his face. He hasn't seen me, has his eyes closed, and I'm just contemplating slipping around the back of the van again when he sighs once more and opens his eyes, ice blue gaze automatically landing on me. He blinks, surprised, and I send him a jaunty little wave, smiling awkwardly.

"Hi."

Rick flounders for a moment. "Uh…h…hello." Unsurprisingly, his eyes skitter across my face; down to the arm I have pressed to my side and the leg I have tucked up, swollen and achy. His brow furrows, deep worry lines creasing his forehead. "Do…would you like some help?" he asks, gesturing to my leg as he takes a small step towards me. I want to tell him no, send him ahead like Jacqui and T-Dog, but then I realize that I can't exactly hide back here forever and I'd rather walk up to meet everyone than somebody wander back to look for me and promptly freak the fuck out. Besides, maybe with Rick, Mr. Newcomer/Screw up/Savior by my side, some of the attention will shift from me to him. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not.

After a moment's hesitation, I give him a small, shy, nod in response. "S…sure. Um…thank you."

Rick doesn't respond but he does step closer, within arm's reach. A frown mars his features, a calculating look in his blue eyes. "If I uh…if I can just hang on your arm for a little balance I think I can make it," I offer when the silence stretches too long to be comfortable. Rick meets my eyes.

"You sure?"

I nod. "Pretty. It won't exactly be comfortable but I can do it."

Not looking entirely convinced, Rick steps around to my left side anyway, offering his arm out like something straight from some damn movie, gentlemanly and smooth. Except I'm the farthest thing from a gratuitous actress as I fumble against his elbow and dig a little too deeply when my first step sends flames licking up my spine. Rick doesn't flinch and just asks if I am ok. I hum an affirmative despite the fact it's a lie.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just…just walk slowly."

Rick nods in assent and we start forward, inch by inch, shuffle by shuffle. We barely make it to the front of the van before I start laughing. "What's so funny?" Rick inquires. There's a confused smile on his lips when I look up and I only laugh harder, shaking my head as my vision swims.

"Nothing. I just feel like a ninety-year-old woman is all.

Instead of laughter, my statement prompts another frown. Deep blue eyes stare down at me for a moment and I feel my own smile slip because I _know _those eyes. Where do I know thos—

"I'm sorry you got hurt," Rick abruptly blurts and it's my turn to frown, confusion bleeding through me. There's more than just sympathy and pity in his tone. He sounds almost…guilty.

"O…oh. Well thank you?" I'm not really sure how to respond but when Rick's frown takes on a regretful hitch I can't help but say, "It wasn't your fault though. You don't have to look so guilty." I mean it's not like Rick's the one that beat my face in and tried to throw me off a roof.

For a moment, Rick is silent and I think we might just drop the topic but then he sighs, heavy and world wearied. "I should have gotten to that man, Merle, sooner. If I had—"

Ahh. I was right. I snort out a derisive laugh. "Are all cops this self-depreciating?" Rick looks bewildered so I continue.

"Not to be mean or anything but man…you don't even know me. And you definitely didn't know Merle." His name tastes foul in my mouth but the taste is not angry. I refuse to acknowledge what it is. "He and I didn't exactly play well with each other. This," I say, gesturing to myself, the blood drying on my skin. "Has been in the making for weeks now. Unfortunately, you just caught us on D-day."

Rick has his lips pursed, unconvinced, for a solid thirty seconds before a tentative smile tugs at his mouth and he shakes his head at me. "Alright. Alright. If you say so. I still feel bad though. You uh…you really took a beating."

I roll my eyes. Understatement of the year right there. "Tch. If you feel so guilty, how bout you channel some of that martyring into being a shield for me because when camp sees my face? I am in for some deep shit." I cringe when I think of Shane's reaction. Or, dear lord, _Lori's._ Deep, **deep** shit.

"What? They're gonna be _mad _at you for getting hurt?" Rick's voice is incredulous and when I cast him a glance out of the corner of my eye, he's openly gaping. I'm pretty sure I can hear the _what kind of people are in this camp _that is running through his head.

"Not necessarily," I say with a shrug. "More like…freaked the fuck out." Shifting my eyes from Rick to the main campsite, I see that we're only a few yards out and only one car blocks my line of sight. Sighing, I drum up all the strength I have left and plaster on my most convincing _I'm fine _smile. "Well…you'll see."

Before Rick can say anything else, we round the last car and officially step into camp.

Almost right smack dab in front of Shane. Oh joy. My luck abounds today.

Shane's about five yards away and the _second _he sees me, the relieved grin on his face does a 180 and I don't know what falls out first: his eyes or his words. I can feel my smile slipping and I brace myself for the biggest shit fest Shane Walsh can throw.

"A…Audrey?" The older man's voice jumps two whole octaves and there are too many emotions in that one word for me to pin down.

"Heyyy Shane," I chuckle nervously. "I um…I can explain."

Shane is looking at me like I should have started explaining yesterday but before I can get a word out, Rick goes stock still beside me and he inhales so fast, the air whistles as he sucks it into his lungs. Upon hearing the noise, Shane notices Rick for the first time, brown eyes clicking from me to him and I think _thank god _my plan of using a Rick as a diversion might actually work. Fumbling to get my tongue into action, I'm just about to introduce my personal cane for the moment but Shane beats me to the punch.

"R…_Rick?" _he chokes and I blink in shock. How…how the hell does he—?

"_Shane?" _

I tear my gaze from Shane and crane my neck to look up at the man by my side and…holy fuck. Rick's white as a sheet; blue eyes so wide they might just pop out, chap lips quivering as his face goes lax with utter and complete shock. Flickering my gaze over to Shane, I see he's in a mirrored state, except Shane looks like he just might hurl. He sways in his shoes and his arm drops like it's gone numb, shotgun scraping along the ground. My head's on a swivel as I look from Shane to Rick and back again, lips parted and brow furrowed. What the hell is going on here? Do they know each other?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I remember something Carl had said to me, just in passing, accidental as we hung out after I finished my drills. "_Shane's not my dad. My…my dad died. But he and Shane were best friends. They were partners on the police force."_

And then I remember that random flash of memory I had when I saw Rick's uniform, a similar streak of beige I couldn't place but now can see clutched tight in Lori's fingers, one random laundry day. Shane's shirt. A matching pair to Rick's. Cop's uniforms. The gears in my head turn, begin to click into place. A dawning sense of disbelief starts to crest me. Rick's shirt…and…and his_ eyes_...that…déjà vu feeling I've had all day about them…

_**Holy fucking shit. **_

The second the realization hits me, the second I'm drawing in a gasp, Rick suddenly makes an odd noise. Half choke, half whimper. Complete disbelief.

"Oh…_oh my god," _he whispers and then, I hear it.

"_Dad!"_

I whip my head around and see Carl thirty feet away, tears streaming down his pale cheeks and mouth twisted between a smile and a sob. He's running, feet eating the distance between him and, Jesus _Christ, _his **father. **Lori's sprinting at his heels but Carl's faster, more desperate, and there's no way she is going to catch him.

Rick sees Carl and before I can even blink, he's tearing across camp to meet his son, wrenching so fast from my side that I can't get my arm out from the crook of his elbow fast enough, dragged forward three feet before I can manage to let go, stumbling and off balance. I nearly bite off my tongue when my momentum forces me to put my full weight on the injured ankle but I had no other choice unless I wanted to end up with a mouthful of dirt. For an instant, the pain in blinding. I flail and try to find something to lean against, collapse on, anything to stop the pressure on my leg, when all of the sudden, an arm wraps around my waist and pulls me to rest against a lean chest, mercifully taking me off my right ankle. My breathing is ragged at best as I press back against the support, shifting slightly so whoever's arm isn't brushing against the sore region of my rib cage where Merle kicked me. The person seems to understand because the pressure's quickly released.

"Haven't fallen enough today?"

Doing my best to scowl, I tilt my head up to look at my 'savior', squinting as the sun shines directly into my eyes. "This," I pant out. "Is totally _not _my fault."

Glenn smiles down at me and takes his hat off, slipping it back onto my head. The fabric's a little sweaty but the sunlight is immediately reduced, leaving me blinking in the replacing shadow. "It never is," he responds and I do my best to dig an elbow into his ribs. Since he only laughs, I don't think I did a proper job.

It takes a little maneuvering but Glenn manages to get the two of us next to an obnoxiously red Dodge Charger, the car he must have driven up here because I sure as hell have never seen it. With a slight moan, I slip out of Glenn's grasp and collapse against the warm siding, the small of my back digging into the door handle but with the weight off my ankle, I can't really be bothered to give a shit. When he's sure I'm situated, and not going to go sprawling into the dirt, Glenn sidles up next to me and nudges my unhurt arm, jerking his chin towards Rick and Carl who are embracing tightly, almost toppled over in the dirt with Rick on his knees. I blink stupidly at the sight because, honestly, I still can't fully believe what I'm watching. I feel out of sorts and out of place because really. What are the fucking odds that the day we go into the city is the day Carl's supposedly dead _father _strolls into Atlanta? What are the fucking odds that Lori and Carl are even part of our group? This…this is some serendipitous shit. I don't know if it's the multiple blows to the head I took today but the world seems tipped off its axis.

"You know," Glenn suddenly muses after a minute or two. "Rick had mentioned something about his wife and son before, right after you passed out." The two of us watch in shock and amazement as Rick hauls Carl off the ground, a good sized twelve-year-old boy, and stumbles the last five feet to Lori, who looks like she's seen a ghost. I blink at the thought. Huh. For all intents and purposes, I guess she has. There's a split hesitation in the older woman's features, a breath and a blink, before she flings her arms around Rick, Carl squished between the two. From this distance, I hear a broken sob as Lori buries her face in the line of Rick's shoulder. I'm not even sure whom it came from.

"But it's so fucking surreal. I mean Lori and Carl?" Glenn continues with a shake of his head. "Small world huh?"

A small frown pulls at the corners of my lips as I watch the Grimes family reunite. "Yeah. Small world," I mutter and, for some reason, the words come out just a little bit bitter.

#

"Are you sure you don't want Dale in here? O…or maybe Shane? Jacqui even. They'd know how to help you a lot better than I can."

I don't look up from where I'm squirming against the scratchy blue sheets of one of the RV's beds, shifting to try and find a less painful position. After the hundredth time of rearranging my hips and legs, I concede defeat and slump against the pillows, doing my best to ignore the pain pulsing through every inch of me.

"I'm sure Amy," I answer, not opening my eyes. Bursts of color bloom across my closed eyelids and I find myself absentmindedly tracking them. Red. Green. Purple. Aqua. "Shane's busy with Rick and everything and even if he wasn't, I wouldn't want him in here."

"Why?" Amy asks from the darkness. There's a flare of pink that accompanies her question and I can't help but giggle quietly. Amy's voice is pink. Lolling my head to the side, I drowsily open my eyes and glance at my friend who sits two feet away from me, perched lightly on the edge of the opposite bed, Dale's bed. The blinds are pulled over the windows but the setting sun still glows through behind her, coloring the edges of her hair a dull orange. Her pale face is cast into contrasting shadows and all I can really see is the bright color of her wide eyes. I struggle to focus on that icy color as I try to find the words to respond.

"Because," I eventually say and I don't miss the way the word slurs off my tongue. "He'd either bitch at me some more for getting hurt or…or be all broody and guilty, like this shit is his fault. I don't wanna deal with that."

Amy purses her full lips and still looks uncertain. She tugs at the loose strands of hair that have escaped the bun hanging lopsidedly on one side of her head and her lips alternate from being blanched with pressure or red from being gnawed on. "Ok but what about Dale or Jacqui? They won't get angry."

I roll my eyes tiredly. "True but they'd mother hen me to death. You should of seen Jacqui in the city." I furrow my brow when I realize how I sound. "Not…not that I'm ungrateful for her help. But I just…this will go a lot smoother if I'm not having to answer a million questions and can bandage myself."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

Shuffling forward, Amy looks kind of lost and frustrated, her delicate features scrunched up. She has my bag, the smaller one, clutched between her fingers like a lifeline. The fabric is dusty and dingy but I can see the clothes I had asked Amy to grab sticking out of the top. I probably could have just worn the clothes that were already in it, new ones from the city, but I wanted something comfortable and worn, something familiar, and the ratty black basketball shorts and dark green T-shirt that I usually slept in would do the trick. I smile gently at her and gesture vaguely to the pack.

"Grabbing my things was a good start." Amy blinks down at her lap like she just realized she was still holding the bag. A light flush crawls across her cheeks and she sets it down beside her. My head swims as I track the movement and I can't help how my eyes flutter shut again. "And besides," I add. "I'll need help with some things. Like I can't see my face to fix it and I don't really want to get up to look in the mirror. That's where you come in."

It's quiet for a few seconds and I listen to the air wheeze out of my damaged throat, the cicadas humming just outside. "I don't want to hurt you," Amy suddenly whispers and when I blearily open my eyes, her own blue orbs are moist and a distressed frown mars her face. Funnily enough, even though I'm the one that's hurt, I'm the one that feels like I should comfort _her. _Mindful of my precarious position, I reach across the small space between us and brush the back of her hand. Amy starts at the soft gesture and looks at me with wide, wide eyes.

"You won't," I tell her with a smile. "I'll tell you what to do. It'll be fine."

Amy exhales shakily but nods in assent and I pat her hand. "Alright. Now we just have to wait for Glenn to get back with the—"

"Water? Way ahead of you."

I blink at the sudden voice and look up to see Glenn standing in the doorway, brow furrowed and tongue sticking out in concentration as he cradles a large bucket of water in his hands. Carefully, he shuffles out of the narrow hallway and into the bedroom unit, setting the bucket at Amy's feet. "One bucket of boiled, sanitized water. As requested," he says with a groan, straightening up from his hunched over position. There's sweat lining his brow and trickling down his cheeks, his black hair plastered down with it but when he meets my eyes, he's smiling. I find myself tiredly grinning back in response.

"Thanks Glenn. You're the best."

He nods solemnly in response and walks over to sit plop down next to Amy on the bed. "I know," he says in all seriousness but bursts out into laughter when Amy elbows him in the side. "I'm kidding. I'm kidding! Jeeze." I roll me eyes at their antics and shift over to the edge of the bed, glancing down at the rippling water Glenn's just brought in.

It's still warm from the fire when I trail my fingers across the surface but not to the point of discomfort. Actually, it's the perfect temperature and I find myself wishing with all my might that I could just soak in it, head to toe, and relax. "Do you have a rag or something?" I ask Glenn. I'm suddenly aware of the blood and grime coating my skin and I'm itching to scrub it all off, wash clean of this day, the city, the walkers…_Merle. _I'm half contemplating just using the shirt I have on now because it has to be splattered with blood by now, unsalvageable. I'm not all too worried about it; it's just a crappy tee. If I can get Glenn to rip it into shreds...oh no wait. If I use the shirt as a rag Glenn's gonna have to leave cuz while I find him a good friend, I'm not exactly about to start stripping in front of him. I narrow my eyes as I try to think of another course of action but my head's pounding steadily and I can't seem to think straight. Fuck.

"Um sorry," Glenn says. "I got the bandages and stuff from Dale but I didn't think—"

I wave him off, the motion uncoordinated and sluggish. "No, no. It's fine. I'll just—"

"I have one."

Glenn and I blink at the quiet admission and turn to Amy. She blushes and reaches for my bag that she had set aside before. "Well actually, you have one Dree. I saw it when I was grabbing your clothes."

What the hell? I don't remember…I know every single item of clothing I still own. Nothing comes close to a rag. Brow furrowed, I watch her dig around my pack for a minute before she makes something of a triumphant noise and retracts her hand, flash of blue clenched tight in her fingers. "Here," she says and offers the scrap of fabric to me. I take it with numb fingers.

It's the remains of what used to be a shirt, dark blue and plaid. Probably a button down, stiff and starched. Now, though, it's worn and soft, holes in some places, the dark stain of blood in others. Unconsciously, I find myself winding my fingers through the rips and tears. There's an echo of quiet laughter in my head and the flash of mirth filled blue orbs. _"Yer face is all __kinds__ of fucked up."_

The memory brings an exasperated smile to my lips but the expression is gone as quickly as it had come. I sigh and clench my fingers, crumbling the rag in my fist, trying to ignore the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with bruised ribs.

"Audrey?"

I blink and lift my head to find Glenn and Amy staring at me with concern. "You ok?" Glenn continues and I dizzily realize that I've been silent for god knows how long. I try to smile and it comes out stilted.

"Uh yeah," I mutter. "Sorry."

Shaking my thoughts away, I painstakingly shift so I'm sitting on the edge of the bed instead of lounging across it; slowly swinging my legs around so I can somewhat straddle the bucket between the beds. Amy and Glenn make half aborted moves to steady me, fingers gently brushing my right knee, my left wrist. I wince at the pain in my ribs and the rush of blood that makes my ankle throb and my head swim but I manage to get situated without too much damage.

"Need help?"

I shake my head at Amy, breath a little labored. "Nah. I'm…I'm good. Just gonna get some of the dirt off first." I wasn't exactly looking forward to this bit. I have to scrub most of the injuries like road rash to get all the dust and grit out, so I don't get an infection. Which means…this was going to hurt like a bitch. Excellent.

The water is cooler than before when I dip the rag in, edging closer to cold than tepid. I mourn the loss silently as I squeeze the excess water out. For a moment, I pause, not knowing where to begin. The discolored and swollen skin of my right wrist calls to me but I remember the last time I messed with it, just lightly trying to rotate the joint. I don't have any more food in my gut but dry heaving and dribbling out bile and water doesn't sound all to appealing. I know I'll have to deal with it eventually but I decide to leave it for last.

Instead, I bring the wet fabric up to my face, hovering over my left cheek. "Do you think…you could tell me where the cuts are?" I ask suddenly, unable to distinguish the pains of bruises and the ones of gashes. Amy blinks at me but bobs her head, remembering our earlier discussion.

"Y…yeah," she stutters and then her eyes skip around my face before landing on my right cheek. She lifts a slightly shaking finger and points. "Um there. There are uh…scratches and scrapes." Scratches? I'm confused for a second because I don't remember Merle _scratching _me but Glenn speaks up, quiet and subdued.

"It's from the rooftop," he murmurs. His eyes are dark but blank. "The gravel." Extending my index finger, I probe at the area lightly and hiss when I come into contact with gritty sand and dirt, wet with what I assume is blood. The memory of sharp rocks digging into my skin comes back to me and I remember that, when Merle kicked my leg out from under me, I went sprawling face first into the rooftop. Fuck. Road rash indeed. God this is going to _suck. _

I'm just about to press the rag against the smarting area when Glenn suddenly reaches out and wraps his hand around mine. I tilt my head in confusion but don't stop him when he extracts the wet rag from my grasp. As he shifts closer, I can see a flush stretched across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a bright streak of red. The thought that it's a little warm in here flits across my mind and I try to reach behind me to turn on the small fan that's latched onto the window but the first firm press against my cheeks makes me freeze with a pained grunt. The pressure immediately retracts and Glenn's muttering apologies.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing! You're hurting her," Amy cries out and it's only when I hear her voice, and a flash of pink sears across my eyelids, do I realize I've clenched my eyes shut. Squinting open my eyes, I see Glenn warding off blows from Amy, hand still half outstretched towards me.

"Amy! Stop! I'm trying to help," he argues, ducking another slap. Amy scowls at him and settles for smacking his shoulder.

"That didn't look like helping." She looks like she wants to berate him more but I cut her off.

"No, he was," I say and when Amy shoots me a skeptical look I nod at her, nausea roiling at the back of my throat. My eyes have a hard time focusing and the word _concussion _flares to life at the back of my skull. I ignore it and try to concentrate on the girl in front of me. "I'm serious. Look. Let me see your hand." She hesitates for a moment, eyes narrowed at me, but relents, scooting forward so she's almost sliding off the bed. Her hand is warm and smooth in mine and I try not to compare the flawless expanse of skin to my scarred and calloused one. Tentatively, I lift our hands to my cheek and rest her fingers against the torn skin. I wince and she gasps, trying to tug away, but I keep her still, fingertips dug into the scrapes.

"Wait, wait. Hold still for a second."

Amy is wan and wide-eyed but after a second's worth of struggle, she subsides. "Do you feel that?" I ask her when she's grown still. "The grit and dirt?" Amy's jaw clenches and I watch her swallow thickly but she nods, fingertips twitching against the dust and grime in my cuts. Slowly, I pry her hand away and guide it down to the bucket of water, dipping her hand in. "I have to get all that out. Scrub it. Like road rash. It's gonna hurt." I glance over at Glenn and lock eyes with him. "But I'd rather have it done fast and firmly, despite the pain, than draw it out."

Glenn purses his lips and half extends his hand to me, rag dangling limply from his fingers in silent question. I bite my lip but quickly stop when the split in it stings. "Could you do it?" I ask. "I can't see where exactly to scrub and won't know when all the gravel's out." He hesitates, a flicker in his dark brown eyes, and I smile to reassure him.

He considers me for a moment but then sighs. "Fine," he agrees, slipping off the bed. I watch curiously as he picks up the bucket and shifts it to the side, towards the back wall. Amy glances down at it, the bucket at her feet, and furrows her brow in confusion. Glenn doesn't offer any explanation as he squirms in the small space between the beds, pulling his legs under him and kneeling on the floor. I start in surprise when he shuffles closer, between my knees, careful of my right ankle, and reaches for my head with his free hand. It's not until he dips the rag again and has it poised inches from my face that I realize he's trying to brace me. Oh. Gritting my teeth, I nod in permission and Glenn's fingers fumble along my jaw line before reaching around and palming the back of my head, caught in the tangles of my hair.

I take a deep breath and my eyes slip closed. "Do it," I tell him. "And please, just get it over with the first time."

There's a moments grace period, in which I imagine Glenn squaring his jaw and nodding, before the grip on the back of my head tightens slightly and the wet press is against my cheek again, firm and unwavering, just before it starts to drag harshly across my skin. My body seizes at the pain and I try to breathe through it but the soft fabric suddenly feels like steel wool and Glenn's hand scrubs vigorously. A whine rises in the back of my throat despite my efforts to jam it back down into my chest. Distantly, I think I hear Amy say something but I can't distinguish the words, lost in darkness and the flashes of red behind my eyes.

It takes what feels like an eternity but eventually the rag is peeled away from my face and I hear the splash of it as it sinks into the bucket. Panting slightly, I open my watery eyes to see the blurry image of Glenn, inches away. My face feels raw and shredded, worse than the initial injury, and the only comforts I have are Glenn's fingers kneading the back of my neck and the drip of cold water against the overheated skin of my brow.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Glenn's murmuring more to himself than to me. His touch in gentle now as it sooths across my forehead, trailing down my temple, and ghosting over my nose, lip, chin. I flinch each time he brushes a new injury but it's not nearly as bad as the burning in my cheek, or the constant pulsing of my ankle and wrist so I deal. Every so often, Glenn will dip the rag again, wash it off, and then he'll be right back to cleansing the blood of my skin. At one point, he murmurs for me to close my eyes and when I do, the cold compress is laid against the swollen heat of my left one. Despite all the pain, I sigh in relief. A few minutes go by and then Glenn's touch trails lower, down the curve of my jaw. His hand becomes firmer again when I tip my head back slightly and I can feel each individual indent Merle's fingers left in my skin, each furrow his nails carved when I shoved him back. After the dirt is cleared, Glenn lingers slightly on my neck, stroking the bruised skin and when I crack open my eyes and glance down, there is guilt heavy in his features, a black shadow flitting through his eyes.

Reaching up, I wrap my fingers over his own, gently pulling the rag from his grasp when he glances up in question and concern. I set the rag against my knees. "Thank you," I say quietly, aware of the way my voice sounds like a smoker's rasp, harsh and grating. I'm hoping he realizes that I'm not just thanking for this but for the roof as well, for pulling me back over the edge. By the smile he gives me, a flicker of a frown along its edges, I can tell he does.

With everything cleansed, Amy grabs the bag of bandages and medical supplies from where Glenn had dropped them on the bed before he left to get water. I hear the crinkle of plastic and glance over at her. She holds out a tube of antiseptic ointment and a box of gauze to me. I smile at her and then nudge Glenn with my left knee, silently asking him to sit back up on the bed because I can't reach Amy with my left hand since he's in the way. With a small flush, he scrambles back and Amy rolls his eyes at him before leaning forward to hand me the ointment.

"This is the only tube," she tells me and I frown at the half empty container until I realize that it's the same one that Dale had let me use when I got attacked by that weasel. I guess the rest of the supplies from the city haven't been unloaded because I distinctly remember more tubes and sprays of disinfectant stuffed in the sides of one of those packs. I still feel guilty that I might use the rest of this tube on a few scrapes and small cuts. However, as I reach to take it anyway, Amy suddenly frowns at me and draws her hand back.

"Oh," she says softly. She bites her lip and looks apologetic. "S…sorry. Would you…I mean…do want me to help?" I cock my head at her in question but then I see how her eyes flicker to my lap, my wrist that's tucked tightly out of the way, black and blue and I'm starting to think broken. There's pity in her gaze and I suddenly realize she doesn't think I can fix up the wounds on my face, doesn't think I have the dexterity. I try to think back and remember if I had told her I was ambidextrous or not. I vaguely recall me saying something to that effect before, but I think it was my first day at camp. I'm not surprised that Amy's forgotten.

I go to remind her but then I see the tentative question in her eyes, bright and begging, and I realize that she _wants _to help. Like Glenn. Gentle fingers and concerned eyes. A part of me wants to refuse, ingrained reflex of wanting to lick my wounds in privacy, but I asked Glenn and Amy to accompany me in here and I remember how I told Amy she could do this not fifteen minutes ago. In the end, I relent.

"Sure," I tell her. She smiles at me and I chuckle, biting back a cringe as I start to shift to sit more in front of her. Before I get an inch over though, Amy stars waving frantically.

"No! Don't move. Hold on."

Scooping up all the supplies, she cradles them awkwardly to her chest and does this combination of a shuffle and a jump to land on the bed beside me, bouncing on the thin mattress. I wince as my arm is jarred but turn my face away sharply so she doesn't see. Glenn spares me a concerned glance but I shake my head and once the pain subsides, turn back to Amy. Ready to help, she already as a dollop of ointment on her finger and a crease between her eyes as she concentrates on my face. I lean back so I don't stare at her cross eyed and giggle when she follows.

"Amy, back up a bit. Personal space."

Even if her face is slightly out of focus, I can still see the slight frown of…hurt?...that pulls at her lips. "Sorry," she says and shifts back a few inches. Her hand still hovers between us, the ointment starting to slip across her skin so I turn my head to bare my scraped cheek at her.

"Just rub it in. It can't hurt anymore so just coat the whole cheek. Then we'll put some gauze on it. Oh, and please dab some on the other open cuts you see as well," I add as an afterthought.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Amy bite her lip but take a deep breath to calm herself. "Ok. L…like this?" There are suddenly ginger fingers probing against my cheek and _ok _I was wrong. It could hurt more. Clenching my fingers in the fabric of my cargo pants, I breathe through the smarting stings. Come on Audrey. You've had worse. I nod tightly. "Yeah. Just like that."

Amy's generous with the ointment and her fingers glide across my cheek, trace the bridge of my nose where I know there must be a split, crawling up to a burning gash on my temple, before finally dropping to the cut in the center of my lower lip.

"Ow!" I cry out when she pushes a bit too harshly on the swollen skin. It doesn't really hurt all that bad but for some reason, the silence of the RV has started to grate on my nerves. Amy draws back like she's been burned and she stares at me with wide apologetic eyes.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! I'm sorry! Dree I'm so sor—"

Half way through her frantic apology I start to grin and it isn't long before I break down in laughter, half gasping in pain and half in mirth. "S…sorry Amy," I pant out, wincing as my side berates me for laughing. "I…I couldn't help it."

Amy gapes at me incredulously, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, before she suddenly realizes I was joking and her fair skin flames red. Shrieking in indignation, she goes to hit me but halts mid motion, not knowing where I'm hurt and where I'm not. After a moment, she drops her hand back into her lap. Her lips are twisted into a dirty scowl and she glares at me.

"Dree that wasn't fucking funny! I thought I hurt you." She goes to move away, probably to sit on the other bed with Glenn again, but I twist my body and reach out with my left hand, tugging at her elbow before she can get fully upright.

"I know, I know," I say. Regret burns quick through my veins and already the split second's amusement I had found slips away. "I'm sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood. It feels like a funeral in here."

Amy's glare doesn't lessen but she slowly sits back down. "Well what do you expect? You almost died Audrey." I grimace at her use of my full name. "If Glenn hadn't pulled you back over the edge—"

"Wait," I interrupt, eyes wide. "How…how do you know about that?"

Outside the group that went to Atlanta, no one else knows the extent of what Merle did. Not for lack of trying though. After the fiasco with the Grimes family died down, people had suddenly remembered that, oh yeah, Audrey looks like she just went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Unfortunately, with my ankle screwed to hell I couldn't exactly run anywhere so I ended up plopped down in front of the fire pit, feet propped up with about ten other people yelling back and forth over me. Accusations had flown left and right, mostly from Shane, which was surprising because I had thought he was going to go off with Rick and Lori and Carl but then I remembered glimpses of him and Lori in the grass and suddenly it wasn't the surprising at all but I wasn't about to touch the topic with a ten foot pole. Still, Shane had been in rare form, demanding to know what happened from Morales, from T-Dog, even setting in on Jacqui when the other two men could only stutter out responses under his wrath. Eventually, after screaming myself hoarse, the gag inducing sensation of blood trickling down the back of my throat, I managed to get him, and Dale and Amy even, to shut up long enough to I could get a word in edgewise. Still, Shane had been all rapid-fire questions and I had tried to answer them as quickly and concisely as possible. Yes, the trip was a success; the supplies were in the van. No, none of us got _bit. _No, Merle wasn't with us and yes there was a reason for that. He was high on something. No I don't know what it was. Yes, I'm sure he was high. He and T-Dog got in an argument, but only after Merle put us in danger, shooting from the rooftop and drawing walkers to us. Yes, we asked him to stop it. Yes, he's the one that caused all my injuries. He was riled up and pissed off. You know he's not my biggest fan. No, he didn't shoot at me, though he did try. Which is why we had to subdue him. No, no one else is badly injured; a few bruises on T-Dog, one or two on Morales. Yes, I'm aware of what I look like. Yes, I'll be fine. No, there's nothing more to tell.

Shane didn't look all that convinced, eyes glued to the finger shaped bruises creating a perverse necklace around my throat but, when Morales looked like he wanted to speak up, add something more, I cut him off effectively, pinning him with a pointed stare that kindly said to _shut the fuck up. _Merle trying to murder me is my business and while half of camp already _saw _it I didn't want an instant replay on pay-per-view. This wasn't sports commentary. It might have been the steel in my wrecked voice or the flint in my narrowed eyes but Morales seemed to get the message. He pursed his lips and didn't look happy but, thankfully, remained silent all the same. A handful of spared glances at each of the other members of the scavenge group revealed them all to be varying levels of confused and upset but no one said a word to contradict me. Thus, my being almost tossed off a ten-story roof remained a semi-secret; probably not for long but hopefully long enough so Shane wouldn't physically handcuff me to the RV like a damn child.

But, apparently, it hadn't even remained a secret for a full hour. If Shane knows already…I am so fucked.

Amy purses her lips, like she's physically going to sew her mouth shut and not tell me, but her eyes do this miniscule click across the room and she doesn't even have to finish the look before I'm whirling on Glenn.

"_You told her?"_

Glenn winces at the pitch and intensity of my voice but Amy's the one to respond, and her words have me spinning back to face her, head spinning from the abrupt movements, vision graying around the edges.

"Yeah he told me," she says. Her face is pinched, creases dug into the normally smooth expanse of her brow. "I mean come on Dree, you thought you could keep you almost being _murdered _a _**secret**__?_"

I frown at her and duck my head, kicking absentmindedly at the bucket of murky water at my feet. "Well, I was hoping," I mutter petulantly.

"Why?" Amy asks incredulously. I lift one shoulder in a shrug. There are a million reasons why I didn't say anything. I don't want Shane on my ass. I don't want that _pity _in everyone's eyes. The _oh look at that poor abused little girl who almost got killed _look. Yeah. Been there. Done that. Burned that T-shirt. And, on top of all those reasons, I just don't like broadcasting my shit. If somehow, I had been alone with Merle when he tried to shove me off the roof and, by some miracle, lived to tell the tale…I wouldn't have fucking told it. It would have been just another secret I bore with me to the grave. I wouldn't have told Glenn. I wouldn't have told Amy. It would have been between Merle and me and God, if that third party even exists.

"I…I don't know," I mutter. "Just…didn't want to make a big deal out of it."

Amy snorts and when I look up at her she's gazing at me like I have too heads. "What?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "I just…just don't get you. First that thing with Daryl and now Merle?" Amy tilts her head, as if she's trying to make sense of a difficult puzzle or translate a foreign, far off language. "Merle tried to _kill _you. And Daryl…I don't see that much of a difference. Every time you go off with a Dixon you end up bloody and fucked up." I bristle at the last comment but she keeps going. "Why are you defending them?"

A headache thrums in my temples, behind my eyes, pulsing like a living thing. I clench my eyes shut against the aggravating pain, more of a nuance then anything else compared to the swollen joints of ankle and wrist. I'm tired. So very fucking tired. I feel like an eternity has passed since I was sitting in the dark of my tent, staring at the faces of ghosts and phantoms, and it hasn't even been a full day. I want nothing more than to just flop down on this bed, even if it isn't mine, turn my back on this day and _sleep. _But I know I can't; not yet. Amy's not going to let this go and maybe if I just explain this to her now I'll be able to rest sooner rather than later.

Sighing, I drop my gaze, the pulse in my temples becoming harsher. Daryl's rag is still lying limply in my lap, wet and almost purple now, my blood staining nearly every inch. I reach out and pick it up, turning it in my grasp as I consider what I'm about to say, how I can phrase my thoughts to make sense. I curse the way my eyes slip out of focus, tired and worn as I lean forward to dip the rag again. Water drips through my fingers as I squeeze.

"Did you know that Daryl gave me this rag? The day I showed up with all those scratches, blood everywhere." Not looking up, I drag the wet cloth down the length of my right arm, cutting through dirt and sweat and blood. The skin beneath is lightly scraped, not enough to break skin though, and somewhat sunburned. "We had been clearing the traps he's set up around camp, came across this weasel that was strung up in a tree. I wasn't paying attention and it dropped down on me." I chuckle lightly at the memory and stop right at the edge of my bruised wrist, tilting my head and really _looking _at the injury. Something at the back of my mind points out that I'm avoiding the real topic, avoiding Glenn and Amy, but fixing my injuries is practical right? I'm getting to the point and if I can't meet their eyes because I'm taking care of my wrist well…that's neither here nor there.

"I was so stupid," I continue, distinctly aware of the confusion permeating the air, the bewildered shifting of Glenn and Amy's shadows as the sunset continues to leak through the weak 70s blinds that we've drawn across the window. "That demon weasel almost clawed the eyes out of my skull. Probably would have if Daryl hadn't yanked it off of me. The bastard wouldn't accept any blame for what happened, not out loud, but I know he felt bad. Gave me this clean rag—well it was clean before—to stop the bleeding; even offered some first aid when we made it back to camp."

Setting Daryl's rag to the side, I prod along my wrist, teeth gritted so hard my jaw aches. But, I continue with my exploration nonetheless, tentative ghost fingers searching for the broken jut of a bone, as I keep talking, almost babbling. "Kind of surprised me ya know? I didn't expect him to be so…nice? I don't know. But that's why I went back to him, later, to help skin what we found in the traps. God, it was disgusting at first. But it got better. A little bit. I'm actually pretty good with a knife now; can cut up a squirrel in nothing flat. Daryl didn't teach me how to skin them though so I'm not really sure—"

A sudden hand on my knee startles me and I snap my head up, hissing when my fingers press too harshly on swollen skin. Amy doesn't remove her hand, just continues to stare at me with this throw for a loop gaze and I bite my lip, letting the slight pain calm me down. Fuck. Rambling.

"Dree," she starts and I take a deep breath to calm down. "What the hell are you talking about?" She doesn't sound upset but I think that's just because she's so puzzled as to why I'm blathering about some stupid rag when we had previously been discussing Merle almost killing me and my defending of apparent horrible people. Funnily enough, all of it's connected. I just have to show her that.

Just say it, I think. Just blurt it all out.

My tongue lifts off the bottom of my mouth and I part my dry lips.

"Can you hand me the medical supplies?"

Chicken shit.

Amy stares at me, looking like she wants to argue.

"The ointment too," I add before dropping my eyes again to my wrist.

The RV's bedroom takes on an exasperated tension and even know I don't look I know Glenn and Amy are sharing glances. After a few moments, there's the rustle of plastic and fabric and then Amy's slim hand presses the items to my side, lying them against the outside of my thigh. I fumble for them as I turn my arm _ever _so slowly, tears blurring my vision as I look down at the pale underbelly of my forearm.

Fortunately, the skin isn't broken. It's swollen and tight but intact. Grasping the antiseptic, I bring the tube to my mouth and twist the cap off with my teeth, letting the small piece of plastic fall into my lap. There's only a little ointment left but I manage to get the last of it out onto my wrist, three large dollops, warm and slick and slightly stinging.

"I'm not defending them. Well not Merle," I amend when I finally find the words. "He…he did what he did. I'm not lying about that but…"

Slowly, I begin to rub the ointment into my skin, being as careful as I can but my breaths come shallowly as pain replaces the blood in my veins. It hurts, god it fucking hurts, but even as tears burn the back of my eyes I dimly note that the pain isn't as agonizing as before. I can move it, not very much, but I can bear it without throwing up again. Silently, I'm grateful for small mercies.

Done with the ointment, I continue my mostly monologue as I cast my eyes about for some bracing material for the makeshift splint I'm about to make. "The truth is, if you haven't already deduced, I kind of have this trust issue. But, more than that, I just don't like attention." My brow furrows because I don't see anything I can use for the splint. "If nobody _needs _to know, if I can deal with something or if…well if it's just nobody's business than mine I tend to not say anything. This isn't just with you either; so don't think that. It's…it's just how I am."

Who I am too, I think, but I don't say that part out loud.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Glenn's feet shift along the floor, shuffling to the side as he leans off the bed towards the hallway. A second later, he's sitting back down and nudging at my shin, a wooden ruler grazing the fabric of my cargo pants. I look up at him in surprise but he shrugs and presses the stick into my still ointment slick fingers. I cast him a small smile of thanks. The ruler is old and worn, half faded tick marks and the stray grey lines of pencil lead. I feel a moments guilt because this is Dale's and I didn't ask for it but then I tell myself I'll give it back when my wrist is healed, just as it was. Satisfied, I turn back to the medical bag to look for an ace bandage.

"So you really just…rather not talk about it? That's it?" Amy says slowly, as if she's struggling to understand. I try to remember that Amy's an _'Amy' _and how suffering in silence is more of an '_Audrey' _thing.

I nod and focus on the beige bandage I've uncovered, unwinding it as I lay my arm flat across my thigh. "Yeah. Exactly," I reply and slowly wind the bandage around my wrist.

No one says anything for what feels like a full minute. I keep my eyes firmly glued to my lap, jaw clenched tight and breath coming in pants as the pressure from the bandage squeezes my swollen skin. I've just laid the ruler along the inside of my wrist, over one layer of bandage, curling my fingers to press one end into my palm when Glenn speaks up.

"But…but don't you think Shane should at least know?" he asks. "About Merle.

My fingers still and my splint lies half finished as I close my eyes and sigh. "Why? What good will that accomplish? It's over, done. I'm alive and relatively fine. Unless," I frown, opening my eyes to lock gazes with Glenn. "You've already _told _him too."

Glenn blushes and looks down sheepishly. He rubs at the back of his head and I suddenly realize his hat is still on the bed beside me, having been dropped there when I first stumbled into the bedroom. "Uh no. I…only told Amy. And…and that's because she made me!"

Amy makes a scandalized noise beside me and gropes for something along the bed, flinging her arm out when her fingers fumble along a wayward item. Glenn barely ducks the roll of medical tape.

"Hey! It's the truth!"

I can't help but laugh at their antics as I pick at the end of the ace bandage and absentmindedly finishing the homemade splint. I dig the little metal clip, sharp teeth on either end, into the end of the ace bandage and pin it to my wrist. The clip holds and the splint, haphazard and nowhere near hospital standards, is done. "She twist your arm Glenn?" I tease and he turns to me with a pout.

"I did no such thing," Amy huffs. "I merely _asked_ to know what happened."

I glance askance at the blonde at my side and see the way her blue eyes twinkle with mirth. "Why do I not believe you?" I muse.

Amy rolls her eyes and looks like she's going to quip back but a sudden knock at the doorway cuts her off. There's a smile on Dale's face as he stands framed in the hallway but the edges look tired and strained.

"Hey Dale," Amy greets. Her voice is friendly and calm, at ease with the older man. Beside her, I squirm awkwardly on the bed, aware of the haphazardly thrown medical supplies sprawled across the bed, the wet ends of my hair and the gleam of ointment against the plane of my brow and arcs of my cheeks. "What's up?"

Dale's smile widens ever so slightly at the cheerful lilt to Amy's words. "Dinner's almost ready. I just wanted to come check on you guys, see if you're all right." Blinking at his words, I look past Glenn's head to the window, noticing how the light bleeding through the old, worn blinds is deeper and redder than before, the last colors of a dying sunset. When I glance back at Dale, I don't miss the way his eyes flicker in my direction and all I can do is plaster on a stilted grin.

"We're fine. Just finishing up Audrey's bandages." Amy says, holding up a stray piece of gauze and waving it lazily through the air. Dale tracks the motion before tilting his head at her.

"Don't you think that would be better put to use on Audrey's cheek?" he laughs quietly, gesturing vaguely in my direction. I barely refrain from bring my fingertips up to brush my cheek. Amy wrinkles her nose at him.

"We were getting there!" she protests but the attempt is half-hearted. "Glenn was distracting us though. I think you should take him with you." She points towards the door, brow furrowed and face serious.

Glenn sputters and lifts up his hands in an innocent gesture. He looks to Dale with a wounded expression: wide eyes and gaping mouth. "W…what? N…no I…I wasn't…"

Amy explodes into giggles and I feel the warm press of her as she leans into my side. Turning my neck slightly, I catch a glance of pale blue eyes squinted in laughter and the golden flash of long blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders. "I was just kidding," she says. Shooting Glenn a grin, she leans over and nudges his knee. "Glenda's been a real help."

Dale rolls his eyes good-naturedly and shakes his head with a chuckle. "Don't be too hard on him Amy. Instead of busting his chops, why don't you help Audrey finish cleaning up huh? You don't want to miss tonight's dinner."

Perking up at the mention of food, Amy leans against me even harder, warm breath tickling my cheek. "Oooh," she coos in interest as I shove her a few inches back. "What did you guys cook?"

"Well if you want do know, better come on out," Dale teases. Amy sticks her tongue out at him but ends up grinning.

"Alright, alright. We'll be right out." She waves her hand dismissively. "But really, take Glenn with you."

"Why do I have to leave?" Glenn complains. In response, Amy leans back and reaches behind me, fumbling for something and when he straightens, Glenn's red hat is clenched in her fingers. Stretching across the small space between us, Amy jams the hat on his head, pulling the brim so it dips below his eyes. Glenn tries half heartedly to twist away.

"Because," Amy says, tugging one last time on the brim. "Dree needs to change and I don't think she wants you ogling her as she strips."

"Amy!" I cry out, cheeks pooling with blood, making the cuts sting and burn. She turns to me with wide and innocent eyes that I don't buy for a second.

"What?"

I shake my head at her, trying to quell the embarrassed flush to my cheeks, the tips of my ears. However, when I look up, I'm afraid Glenn might burst a blood vessel. He's crimson from the roots of his hair to the ridges of his collarbones and his eyes are darting everywhere but towards Amy and I, like I've already started changing or something. Amy giggles in my ear and Glenn stumbles to his feet, nearly kicking over the water bucket in his frantic haste.

"Oh shi—"

He snags the bucket before it tips over and fumbles to pick it up. "I…uh…I'm just gonna," he gestures helplessly at the door, still not meeting our eyes. "I'll see you guys at dinner." Without another word, he slides past Dale, bumping into the doorway on his way out and sloshing water onto the floor as well as the front of his shirt. Dale watches Glenn go by with a fond shake of his head and he actually chuckles as we all hear the RV door open and fall shut.

"You really should let up on him," Dale admonishes and Amy snickers in response.

"But where's the fun in that?"

#

It takes another fifteen minutes for Amy and I to finish up in the RV. After Dale left, I had to wrestle off my clothes and wipe off with another bucket of water Amy quickly ran outside to grab, all before finally cleaning the rest of my injuries, which were a fair few. It took a little maneuvering, and a lot of luck, but I managed to peel off my ruined shirt and somewhat salvageable cargo pants while Amy stood guard in the hallway, back turned but there in case I fell on my ass. Thankfully, I didn't, and, with some pain, I pulled my worn, oversized dark green t-shirt on before slipping on the pair of basketball shorts. As the hem of my shirt slipped past my bust, I looked down to see my ribs were a molten shade of blending purples and reds but nothing seemed broken when I prodded the area, a sore ache instead of splintering pain. Either way, I wrapped another ace bandage around my ribs a few times to brace myself just in case there was another fracture. Amy came back in not long after and helped me inspect my ankle and while it didn't hurt as bad as my wrist, it was still pretty tender and somewhat swollen. Also, it had to be braced just as much if not more since I had to put weight on that joint. Ankle wrapped thickly with the last ace bandage, a patch of gauze on my cheek, and a few butterfly stitches later along my temple and brow, and Amy was finally helping me out of the RV and into the bruised shadow of twilight.

Dinner is mostly a quiet little affair. We all crowd around the campfire and eat a full, good meal: sweet corn, dirty rice and a whole canned chicken. To earlier standards, it's a meal left wanting but for us, after weeks of beans and lean squirrel, it's practically a five-course delicacy. The tension has gone out of the air and there's laughter and some jokes, smiles as T-Dog breaks out a case of beer that I had no idea we even brought back. By the time the sun has completely set and the fire is our only source of light, only a few have turned in for the night and the rest of us are all leant against each other in the glow of flickering flames, full and tired and for once, content. It's not perfect, my arm still pulses in time to my heart, my ankle an echo, and my skin is more broken than intact but…it's close enough to feel really damn good.

Lazily, I let my gaze trail across the faces around the fire. The smoke vaguely stings my eyes and takes the edges off of everything, faces blurred and wavering. Amy leans against Andrea across from me, the two propping each other up as they sit curled on the dirt. Every so often, Amy will lift her head from her sister's shoulder and cast a quick glance at her face before dropping her head again, as if making sure she's still there. I feel a tired smile pull at my lips and the content feeling, for a time, overrides the pain.

The night air is cooler than I anticipated, taking on a hint of fall, and I find myself sprawled as close to the smoldering warmth of the fire as possible. Beneath me, the ground is hard packed, naked dirt with no cushion of grass. My back curves against the side of one of camp's improvised log benches and I let my bare toes wiggle as close to the fire as they can be without blistering. I'm drowsy and hazy; every so often I'll feel Glenn, who's sitting on the log I'm resting against, brush my shoulder of the ends of my hair and I'll turn into the movement slightly to show that I'm awake. Glenn had wanted to help me back to my tent after dinner was over but despite the fact that I was ready to drop, I hadn't wanted to be alone just yet. My friend seemed dubious at best but I assured him that if I started to nod off, I'd head to bed. He hadn't exactly liked the idea and he also didn't like my decision to sit on the ground either, stubbornly trying to convince me to sit in a chair, on a crate, anything but the cold ground. While it was admittedly more difficult to lower myself all the way to the dirt, I also knew there was arguably less chance of me falling over and exacerbating my injuries. And it's not all that uncomfortable. I have no doubt that, if I let myself, I could fall fast asleep like this.

Idle conversation flows around me but I don't try very hard to track it, just let it slide past me and meld into a calming hum of noise. On occasion, I'll catch a spare word or make a comment here and there but for the most part I'm silent, observing with half lidded eyes. More often than not, I find my eyes drawn back to the Grimes family, curled up together directly to my left. Even hours after the fact, the miracle of them finding each other still amazes me. There's this hard pit in my stomach, small but there nonetheless, weighing me down and I try not to let that kernel of bitter envy affect me. For the most part, it doesn't. Not when I see the perpetual, watery smile etched onto Carl's face, the adoring light in his eyes, so like his father's, that never leave Rick, even for a moment. Rick has him seated between his legs, drawn back tight against his chest. His right arm rests against Carl's collarbone and his left is looped around Lori who has plastered herself to his side as if to make them into one entity. Seeing the whole unit together, I can't help but notice small nuances about them, like how Carl has his father's eyes but his mother's nose, Rick's smile and Lori's rounded cheeks. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, even with everything else that went down, I'm glad Rick fired off those shots in Atlanta.

I shift slightly in my spot, bending my left leg at the knee and draping my arm across it. The fire had burned down low by now, small flickering flames that cast a weak orange light and contrasting deep shadows. Absentmindedly, I twirl a small twig in my fingers, tapping it to an off rhythm beat against my knee. The weak wood cracks beneath my fingertips and I toss it into the fire, watching tiny sparks that flare for just an instant before going dark. My eyelids feel heavy and I let them flutter close for a moment, unconsciously leaning against Glenn's leg as I tilt my head back, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into the bruised skin of my throat.

When I blink my eyes open, I feel slightly disoriented. The fire is dimmer than it had been a few moments before, barely more than embers. However, despite the lack of flames, I feel warmer than I had previously and when I look down, there's a jacket draped across my torso, folded over my arms and lap, my legs sticking out incongruously from the hem. I tilt my head in confusion at the sight but wince when a stinging pain flares through my temple, followed by the sensation of knobby resistance. Turning my head, my nose brushes against warm, stiff denim and when I pull back a few inches I realize I had been resting my head on the side of Glenn's knee. Oh. I must have dozed off. Blinking, I crane my neck up to look at Glenn, who's the owner of the jacket lying in my lap I realize, but he's looking off towards the right, past T-Dog who shares the small log he's perched on. My vision is still blurry and I have to squint in the low light but it looks like there's a small frown etched on his features.

Trying not to draw attention to myself, I sit the slightest bit forward, feeling the ace bandage around my ribs constrict tighter at the movement. Rubbing at my eyes to clear them, I peek around Glenn's knees and peer into the direction he, and everyone, is looking in. About twenty yards away, a swath of abject darkness, I see another set of flames, bigger, brighter, and can hear the low pitched rumble of male voices. It's too dark for me to tell for certain but the silhouette crouched at the other fire looks like Shane and the former cop is missing from his spot between Amy and T-Dog so I just assume it's him. Then, when my gaze travels a few feet farther and I see Ed Peletier I know for a fact that it is.

I'm suddenly completely alert. A sickened knot twists in my gut at the sight of the disgusting man, sprawled in a camping chair with Sophia and Carol across from him. Usually, everyone eats around one fire, save fuel and matches, but occasionally smaller fires will crop up and people will crowd around those as they please. Tonight, with all the extra supplies we brought in, is one of those few instances. From this distance, I can't hear what Shane is saying to Ed but before long the other man gestures vaguely at the fire and Carol gets up to pull a log out. Their fire dies down to low flames again as Shane stomps out the still smoldering branch and I realize the two men must have been arguing about the amount of light the fire was giving off. Shane is adamant about keeping the fires low at night so as not to be beacons in the dark to anybody that would look our direction, walker and strangers alike. I'm not surprised he and Ed butted heads about this; it wouldn't be the first time. My lip curls at the mere sight of the bastard Peletier and I can't help but remember my hatred for him, as dark and numerous as the bruises along Carol's arms. Unconsciously, my fists clench in repressed anger and I have to look away, staring back into the depths of our own fire, tracing patterns in the dancing flames.

I must be squirming or something because all of the sudden Glenn leans forward and dips his head, peering at the side of my face. I turn to him, showing him that I'm awake, and make face to which he smiles. There's a question in his eyes and he tilts his head behind him, towards the line of tents, but I just shake my head. "_I'm good," _I mouth and he purses his lips but shrugs all the same. Like me, I guess he doesn't really feel up to moving right now.

All of the sudden there's a flicker of shadow in my peripherals and when I turn to look, Shane's just folding himself back down to the ground, dropping his cap beside him and replacing it with a brown beer bottle. He lifts the glass to his mouth and takes a healthy swig, upending it and draining the last dregs. As he sets the empty bottle down, he catches my eyes through the smoke and blinks in almost surprise. I see his eyes unconsciously click from injury to injury, almost cataloguing, expression growing almost imperceptibly darker with each bruise he sees. I try to smile reassuringly at him but at that moment a twinge runs up my leg and I can't help the painful grimace or the quiet hiss that worms between my teeth. Shane's eyes lock onto my face but then immediately flicker down to my leg where I'm absentmindedly rubbing at the bulky bandages, as if to ease the pain. The rubbing doesn't exactly help, and being hunched over basically trying to touch my toes makes it harder to breathe with the ace bandage on, but soon enough the pain dissipates and I'm able to sit back, a light sweat beaded on my brow.

"You alright there Audrey?" Shane suddenly inquires. His voice is quiet since we aren't sitting very far from each other, separated by a mere two people, not even six feet of space, but his voice carries. The second his words hit the air, everyone around the fire is zeroed in on me. Their gazes feel hotter than the flames.

I blush and am glad for the fire to explain away the color in my face, the darkness that probably masks it anyway. "Just peachy Shane," I reply. "Fat and full and fine."

The skepticism in the air, not just from Shane either, is as thick as the smoke. I try not to fidget but end up ducking my head slightly anyway, hoping to hide the bruises along my cheek and neck in the twisting shadows the fire cast upon me. I think Glenn must notice I feel uncomfortable because he presses the line of his leg firmly into my side and I lean my head against his knee again, letting my hair fall into my face, covering the still swollen skin of my left eye.

It's quiet for a few moments but I can still tell people are staring at me. Feeling awkward, I keep my gaze oscillating from the slowly dying fire to the worn tops of Glenn's shoes, fiddling idly with the hem of his jacket, still draped across my lap. After a small silent lapse, I hear someone shift in their spot, feet sliding in the dirt followed by the muffled clink of glass being set down on stone. By the way the person clears their throat, I can tell Dale is getting ready to speak. I can only silently pray that his words have nothing to do with me.

"Has anyone given any thought to _Daryl _Dixon?"

My body freezes, fingers going stock still, a wayward strand of thread wound around my index finger and digging into the skin. Around me, I hear tight inhales and harsh exhales; I feel Glenn's body go rigid, his leg shaking with the strain of it. I could almost laugh because, just as I had prayed for, this particular conversation is not about me. Now, I wish it were.

Dale sighs and out of the corner of my eye I see him rub tiredly at his face. When I look up fully, he's staring at Shane but I hadn't missed the minute flicker he sent my way. "He's not gonna be happy to hear his brother was left behind," he continues.

Again, the image of rotten teeth and jagged claws and Merle's flesh being rent in two flashes in my mind's eye and my stomach does this vicious flip, my dinner threatening to make a reappearance. I grit my teeth against the sensation and stare resolutely into the fire, opening the wavering colors of orange and red and yellow will sear the ghostly image of crystal blue orbs out from behind my eyelids.

T-Dog shifts in his seat on the other side of Glenn and I feel the log behind me roll ever so slightly backwards. "I'll tell him," he suddenly declares and I whip around to stare at him, even around Glenn, because I was _not_ expecting that. His profile is solemn and serious. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I dropped the key. It's on me. I'll tell him." He repeats the final sentence as if to convince himself and if it weren't for the slight guilt in his tone I would think he was lying.

"I cuffed Merle," Rick interjects. I turn to look at him in surprise as well. "That makes him mine." And I thought we were going to have to draw straws to decide who would tell Daryl. Yet, here we are, two volunteers ready to go. I can't shut up the voice in the back of my mind that's saying neither T-Dog nor Rick should be the one to address Daryl. But I refuse to acknowledge the alternative. No. I…I said I was done with Daryl; he was certainly done with me.

Glenn abruptly laughs above me, dry and without humor, but I don't bother to look up at him, instead settling for letting his words rumble right through me. "Guys, this isn't a competition," he points out. "And I don't mean to bring race into this T-Dog but it might sound better coming from a white guy."

Rick sits up a little straighter, as if that means he's won by default, but Glenn's shaking his head at him too. "Preferably not the white guy who cuffed Merle to the roof in the first place," he amends and Rick settles back with a frown.

Shane sighs off to my left and rubs a hand agitatedly through his hair. The former cop looks like hell: dark circles under his eyes, unruly stubble along his jaw, skin tight and pale. One would think he's the one that's had taken a beating instead of witnessing the resurrection, a good kind, of his best friend. "Guess that leaves me," he says tonelessly. I can tell by the look on his face he'd rather chop off a finger.

"That's not the best idea either."

Everyone turns to stare at me again and it takes me a moment to realize I had been the one to speak. I purse my lips and berate myself mentally for being an idiot.

"Well none of this is exactly _ideal_," Shane drawls and I roll my eyes at him.

"I'm not saying it's supposed to be but…D…Daryl isn't exactly _your _biggest fan Shane," I tell him, only stuttering slightly on the other man's name. I think back to yesterday—holy crap has it only been a day?—and remember the rage in Daryl's face, the words Shane spat at him. He's liable to actually shoot Shane if he approaches with this information.

"So who's gonna tell him then huh?" Shane asks. His gaze is expectant; I know what he wants me to say. And a part of me wants to say it. Volunteer. Be the saint; the martyr. But I'm not. I won't. I've done fucking enough today thank you very much. This isn't my responsibility too. I clamp my mouth shut and drop my gaze.

"I did what I did," T-Dog speaks up again and there's a firm, adamant note in his voice. "Hell if I'm gonna run from it." Despite everything, I have to give T-Dog props here. Volunteering to do this takes courage. And I'm a fucking coward.

"We could lie," Amy suddenly suggests and I find myself unconsciously shaking my head even though no one is looking at me, even though Andrea is already verbally shooting down the idea.

"Or we could tell the truth," Andrea sighs. "Merle was out of control." Her eyes find mine over the fire and she gives me a sad, pitying smile. I frown in response and mentally urge her to stay quiet. "Something had to be done or Merle would have succeeded in killing us all." The implications of her words are not lost on anyone and I want nothing more than to pull Glenn's jacket over my face and hide from their stares.

"Your husband did what was necessary," Andrea continues, shifting her eyes over to Lori. "And if Merle got left behind…that's nobody's fault but his own.

"_Nobody's fault but his own."_

I repeat that line over and over to myself, trying to engrave it in my brain. Merle getting left behind is his fault. Not T-Dog's; not Rick's; _not __**mine**__. _There's no reason to feel guilty I tell myself.

And yet, the churning feeling in my stomach doesn't lessen or fade; I wonder how many times do I have to repeat the idea before I believe it, before it becomes true.

Off to the side, Dale scoffs. His eyes are wide and disbelieving and he almost laughs as he asks, "And that's what we tell _Daryl?" _No one answers his rhetorical question and he shakes his head. "I don't see a rational discussion to be had from that."

"When does Dixon ever have a rational discussion?" Shane mutters under his breath. Unbidden, a scowl twists my features but I maintain my silence. It isn't worth the trouble.

Dale glances at all of us but I feel like his gaze lingers on me the longest. "A word to the wise: we're gonna have our hands full when he gets back from his hunt."

I flinch under the scrutiny of his dark brown orbs and duck my head, staring resolutely down at my lap. I don't want to think about what Dale's mentioning but it's impossible not too. Daryl's gone for the moment but he's going to be back eventually. He's going to stroll back into camp, more likely than not with a good kill on his back, and since I'm not worth the goddamn trouble to deal with, he's going to look to Merle to help him clean and skin and carve. He's going to look for his brother but Merle won't be here. He won't be anywhere in sight. And then someone is going to have to tell him that Merle is _dead, _left in Atlanta, chained like a fucking cow awaiting slaughter and how can Dale be so nonchalant about this? _'We're gonna have our hands full'? _Merle was an asshole, arguably a monster, but he was Daryl's brother, last of kin, and Daryl was loyal to him to a fault; I've seen it. I don't know exactly how Daryl will react but I know it's going to be explosive. I just want to find a hole and bury myself in it, swim to the bottom of the quarry and stay there forever. Anything…anything to not see the realization dawn in Daryl's eyes that his brother is dead and never coming ba—

"I stopped long enough to chain that door."

I blink as I realize T-Dog had started talking again, sometime when I was lost in my head. His words have something in me stilling, like the blood in my veins is turning to molasses, ice. I'm just thinking I must have missed a turn into the conversation and am just about to ask Glenn where we are at when T-Dog keeps going.

"The staircase to the roof is narrow," he says slowly, as if explaining something rather difficult to us. I don't like his tone. It's ominous. "Maybe half a dozen geeks can squeeze against it at any one time." The ice in my veins turns to glue. Something like understanding digs into my brain as I process T-Dog's words.

No.

"But that's not enough to break through," T-Dog says. "Not that chain, not that padlock."

No.

"What's your point?" Andrea asks and I almost want to shove the question back into her mouth as something akin to horror starts to swell in me.

No, no, no.

"My point is…Dixon's alive. And he's still up there, handcuffed to that roof. That's on us," T-Dog says roughly and then he's standing up, lines of his face harsh in the smoky shadowed haze. He casts us all one last grim faced look, made more gruesome by the shifting bruises on his face, the blood on his collar, before he mutters a quick goodnight and stalks away into the darkness, ready to turn his back on this long, fucked up day.

The glue inside me turns to cement and I feel leaden, heavy, immobile.

Because apparently…Merle isn't dead. Not yet. Oh my fucking god.

I remember the sickening feeling I had before, when I thought of Merle being ripped to pieces by walkers. Somehow…this seems almost worse. No. It _is _worse. If the walkers had gotten to him, death would take no more than…five minutes. At the most. But if the door was locked, as T-Dog said? How long can the human body go without food? Without water? Without shade, under the baking Georgia sun?

Days? Weeks? And all that time spent, handcuffed to a foot of solid metal, the growls and moans of frantic geeks scrambling at the door ten feet away; spent realizing…you can't escape…and that no one is coming for you. Because no one is going to go back for Merle Dixon. Not with me standing in front of them, a clear case in point of every reason why they shouldn't lift a damn finger to help him. Daryl will go back though, if they even tell him about the chain. Whoever is the bearer of bad news might just bend the truth a little bit, say Merle died and we left his body behind. It's the truth isn't it? If only a little out of order.

But if they do tell him about the padlock, the narrow staircase that only half a dozen geeks can squeeze through at any one time, Daryl's going back into Atlanta. More than likely alone, no guide and no idea where the fuck he is going. And if they don't tell him, say Merle was just taken down, there was nothing we could do and he was dead, dead and gone? Than Merle is going to starve to death, or become so dehydrated his heart gives out, all while we sit here back at camp, eating and enjoying our spoils, smiling as Daryl mourns a man who's not yet dead.

Merle might have tried to kill. He might have broken my arm and beaten the ever-living hell out of me…but goddamn. I don't know if I can condemn him to something like that. I don't know if I have the right.

And I definitely don't know if I can look Daryl right in the face and lie if that is the group's decision.

I just don't fucking know.

#

The next morning dawns pale and cloudy. I wake to the sound of murmuring voices, the distant clang of metal, and Abby slipping out of our tent, laughing with someone who waits just outside. There's a faint smell of food in the air but I turn away from it and bury my nose in the cheap material of my sleeping bag. But sleep eludes me, as it eluded me most of the night, and I find myself staring listlessly at the wall of the tent, six inches away. I frown at the sight and slowly turn over on my side. My ribs protest the movement and I can't help the grimace that contorts my features.

I hadn't thought it was possible but my body feels worse today than it did yesterday. Perhaps it had been some vestiges of adrenaline or fear that staved off the worst of the pain; maybe it was just that the bruises hadn't had time to fully sink in yet. Whatever it is, it's certainly gone now because every _atom _of me feels raw. Even the ends of my fucking hair ache. My head throbs like someone is hammering away inside my skull; the skin of my face pulses with each heartbeat and I can feel each bruise thrum in time; my throat feels half caved in, every breath a scrape of glass beneath the skin that burns as if a thousand fire ants have lain siege to it; my ribs make each breath shallow and painful; my wrist feels like…well it feels mother fucking broken and my ankle feels only a smidge better. I kind of wish I had fallen into some sort of coma during the night. Being conscious is torture.

I don't know how long I wallow in agony but eventually I'm struggling upright and getting ready for the day. It takes three times as long as usual and after many failed attempts at trying to change, and of numerous instances where I almost fell on my face and or ass, I decided fuck it and just stayed in the clothes I had slept in. The oversized green T-shirt and black shorts weren't dirty anyway. They aren't very attractive but I really couldn't be bothered to give a fuck. Having succeeded in brushing my teeth and half running a brush through the tangled mess of my hair, I limp out of my tent bare foot since no shoe could fit around the bandages incasing my right leg and I just didn't have the energy to wrestle on the other one. On my way out, I dig through my hiking pack, the bigger one, in search of a bottle of Tylenol I thought I had seen at the very bottom a few days ago. I turn up lint and a protein bar and I pocket the bar just so I don't have to put it back where I found it, under everything else. Sighing, I just accept that pain is going to be my new best friend and suck it up. God this is just a stellar start.

Carol is the first one to notice me. She's standing near the fire pit, ironing some clothes. A small pile has already accumulated beside her, stack haphazardly on a chair. "Good morning Audrey," she says. Her eyes do a little skip jump over me and I try not to frown at the pitying light in her eyes. I can't be mad at Carol though. She, out of anyone, will probably know _exactly _how I'm feeling.

"Morning," I respond with a small smile. Looking past her, I see the fire pit is cold, ashes and dust with no glowing embers. "Though I guess it's closer to good afternoon huh?" I hadn't realized I had lain in bed so long. It must be almost noon.

Smiling gently, Carol finishes up what I realize must be one of her husband's shirts and starts to fold it. "We thought you'd need the rest," she explains. "But if you're hungry I could fix you something real quick." Her blue eyes gaze at me in sincere kindness and I know that if I said yes, Carol would do just as she said. I shake my head at her.

"No, no. I'm fine. Lunch can't be too far off right? I'll just wait till then. But thank you."

Carol drops her head as if she's not used to gratitude and I feel a flare of anger in me when I realize she's really not. Before I can say anything else, the older woman gives me one last smile and then turns away, gathering the stack of clothes she's ironed and walking them back towards her tent. I look after her with a frown but then a loud clang of metal off to my left draws my attention.

Glenn's standing about ten yards away with his back turned towards me. His shoulders are hunched and I can tell he has his arms crossed in front of him. Painstakingly, I walk up to his side and lean against his arm. He doesn't even spare me a glance, staring mournfully at the group of men five feet in front of us as they quickly and efficiently dismantle the red Charger he had driven yesterday.

"I woke up and they already had the tires off," he finally says and his voice is sulky, put out. I can't help but roll my eyes and hip check him slightly.

"Goodness. Sounds like you have it hard."

Glenn frowns and turns to probably retort but the second he sees my face he flinches and goes pale with guilt. I make a face at him and turn back to watch Jim tinker with something in the engine. The former mechanic is smeared in oil up to his elbows and looks more at ease than I've seen him in weeks, forearms buried in the guts of this car.

"Oh don't look at me like that Glenda," I sigh. "You know that's not what I meant."

He doesn't say anything in response but Morales finally looks up from where he's been leaning into the driver's seat and catches sight of me. His smile, though mostly fake, is wide.

"Morning niña," he calls and I lift a hand to wave at him.

"Hey Morales. Seems like you guys have been busy bees this morning." I gesture at the car, now without tires, probably without gas, and soon to be without any engine parts. "What? Early bird gets the gasoline?

The older man chuckles and shakes his head. He straightens up and I realize he has the car's radio in his grasp. Really? What use is that?

"Something like that. Almost done though. Sorry Glenn."

The young man at my side mutters something vulgar under his breath and I laugh. He turns to me with wounded eyes and I reach up to tug on the brim of his cap. He opens his mouth to say something but then his gaze clicks over my shoulder and he frowns.

"What?" I ask. I turn and glance in the same direction and see nothing but Amy and Andrea hanging clothes, Lori and Rick talking beside them.

He blinks and shakes his head. "Nothing. You just look…different without the katana sticking over your shoulder. It's like you're missing a limb," he says.

I stare at him with incredibility before laughing, head thrown back and everything. "It's nice to know I'm thought of as having an extra appendage growing out of my back." Glenn flushes and waves his hands but I cut him off before he can start stuttering apologies. "It's ok Glenn. I get it." Still chuckling, I reach down and pull the tanto out of its sheath, strapped against my right hip instead of my left. The motion feels awkward, I'm used to doing this in a mirrored fashion, but the hilt is warm and smooth and familiar in my palm.

"The katana was too much of a hassle to get on," I tell him truthfully. "But I do feel kind of naked with only this." I twirl tanto in my grasp for a moment, the blade catching the weak light that filters through the clouds. "Plus the no shoes deal."

Glenn drops his eyes to my feet and I wiggle my toes in the dirt. He tilts his head at the sight. "Why are both your feet bare?" he asks. I open my mouth to tell him about my laziness, and also the fact that having one shoe on would throw me off balance, when a blood-curdling scream rents the air in two.

The sound has everyone whirling to stare at the tree line. It's like the air has frozen, time has stopped, but then everyone is moving at once, flurries of motion and fear. We all know that scream. Even if it hasn't ever sounded in this camp, we all know that scream down in our bones.

_**Walker.**_

On reflex, my right arm tries to reach up, grabble for leather and steel, but my wrist flares in agony and my brain suddenly reminds me that I'm not wearing the sword, recalling the conversation I _just _had with Glenn. But when another scream of terror sounds off in the trees, _Carl, _I no longer care if I only have a rock to fight with. Before I know what I'm doing, I try to start forward but someone grabs my arm and yanks me back. The tanto tumbles from my hand and into the dirt. I whirl to find Glenn's wide eyes staring straight at me.

"Stay here!" he yells. I open my mouth to argue, I twist my arm to get free, but he's no longer at my side. He's already sprinting away from my side, scrambling for a crowbar that's half propped against the Charger, following Shane and Rick into the trees with Morales, Jim and Dale right on his heels. I'm left alone and panting for a moment but then I stoop low and snatch the tanto off the ground, already stumbling into a stuttering run. Pain flares in my ankle, white hot and molten, but I ignore it, pushing myself faster, through the brush and tree line, not even feeling my feet touch the ground. I stumble again and again and once I go down hard, right onto my knee, but I get up not a second later, blood trickling down my shin.

I find Lori, Carol, Jacqui and Miranda huddled around the children, fear stark in their faces. Lori has Carl's face jammed into her neck and she keeps repeating the words, "Nothing bit you? Nothing scratched you?" over and over and over, even as Carl responds _no _every time. Sophia is crying into her mother's shoulder and Miranda already has Eliza on her hip, scrambling to get Louis in her arms as well. Bile roils in my throat, and I snap my head up, looking in the direction where Jacqui's gazing in terror and everything in me wants to run that way, go help, but I stamp it down and instead hurry over to the other women.

"Get up," I pant. No one seems to hear me; they all stare wide-eyed and transfixed in the direction the men just disappeared in. Gritting my teeth, I switch my tanto to my right hand, wrist howling as I clumsily clench my fingers around the hilt, and reach down to yank Lori to her feet. The older woman cries out in fear, instinctively drawing Carl closer to her, before she finally sees that it's me.

"Come on! Get up and follow me," I say again, turning to make sure the other women heard me. They scramble to their feet, Miranda passing Louis to Jacqui so that none of the children are on their own two legs. Even Sophia is huddled in the circle of her mother's thin arms. "We have to get back to the RV. Come on."

Lori frowns in distress and casts a look over her shoulder, where grunts and the sound of blunt objects hitting flesh can be heard, but my hand is still clenched around her upper arm and I pull her firmly forward. "Rick will be fine but we need to get back to the RV," I growl, fear and pain like blood in my veins. "Quickly!"

Finally, the women heed my words because they turn back to camp and start jogging as quickly as they can in that direction. I look one last time behind me, before switching my tanto to my left hand again and running after them. Before long, we're all crowded around the doorway of the Winnebago, random members of camp grasping the odd weapon here and there: a bat, a branch, a pan. I stand slightly in front with my tanto brandished before me, eyes wild and chest heaving. My right leg threatens to give, I can no longer put any weight on it, but I remain standing as the children whimper softly behind me, their mother's trying to soothe and stave their tears. People murmur spare words, fear laced and toxic, and as I listen to them, ears also trained for that moan or growl that I fear is just out of sight in the tree line, I can only pray for one thing.

Please. Let there only be one.

* * *

><p>Daryl can't believe his goddamn luck. He really fuckin can't. He's waitin for some kind of lightnin strike or for him to tumble off a cliff or somethin because there's no way in hell he can have such good luck and the world still stay spinnin.<p>

For a full day he tracked that fawn. From night to day and into the dark of a second night. And finally, long after the sun had set last night, he realizes that the damn thing has done this huge loop in the woods, curvin back around towards the quarry. He was just startin to think the deer was an orphan, Bambi's mama already killed and just wanderin aimlessly, when the doe came out of nowhere, fat and full and fuckin just beggin for Daryl to shoot it. Except he didn't. Cuz the doe turned its body and all but marched itself back to camp, the fawn at its side as they both made Daryl's life easier than it's ever been. Four hours after sunrise, the doe was only a hundred yards out of camp and Daryl couldn't think of anythin better, feared that if he waited the doe would somehow freak and just sprint in the other direction and just be _gone, _so he shot it. First arrow went straight into the flank and the doe's legs buckled, a frightened bleat expelling from its throat. The fawn beside it freaked and tried to high tail it in the opposite direction but a well-placed shot to the neck had the baby deer tumbling into a patch of long grass, not twenty yards away. Daryl let the fawn be while he quickly made his way over to the doe. It was trying to get up and it succeeded in frantically fumbling a few feet before Daryl got a hold of it and broke its neck. The body went limp in his grasp and he set it on the ground, tired, worn out, and completely fuckin floored.

That was bout half an hour ago. He was gonna just drag both the doe and deer back to camp but at the last second, decided to check the traps first. It had been a few days and Daryl doubted Merle had gotten off his ass to empty them. So far, he's found a dozen squirrels and one rabbit, all just waitin for him, like goddamn presents. As he ties the last squirrel from the last trap onto the length of rope he has slung across his back, a part of him wants to celebrate. Drink half the whiskey that he still has tied off at his hip. But the rest of him is wary, cautious, waitin for a shoe to drop because Daryl's a Dixon and shit is never this good. Ever.

So when a few screams echo out into the forest, comin from the direction of camp, Daryl can't help but feel the world is right again.

Daryl finds himself runnin before he realizes it, crossbow cocked and loaded as he winds his way through the trees. He can hear shouts now, frantic voices, and they're all comin from the small clearing he left the doe in. Grittin his teeth, he hopes that the dumb fucks aren't freakin out over a damn deer carcass. Fuckin city folk.

There's a fallen tree that he has to step over to get to the clearing and the obstacle takes some maneuverin. The wood is mostly rotten through and not many places can hold his weight. It's cuz he's keeping his eyes on his feet, tryin not to twist his ankle, that he doesn't see them until he's on solid dirt again, steppin out from around a crop of boulders and straight into the clearing.

The first thing he sees is Walsh's shotgun aimed straight at his head, a silent snarl on the other man's face. Daryl blinks at it and then scowls, ready to tell the bastard off, before he notices the deer Walsh is standing over.

"Son of a bitch." The words snarl themselves out of his mouth and he's moving forward as Walsh drops his gun with a roll of his eyes. Daryl ignores him and shoves past the mechanic standing in his way. "That's my deer!"

Or was. Now the thing is missing its neck and half of its chest, blood spilled across the ground, staining the dirt red. A foot away, a walker's body lays headless and Daryl has to curb the urge to laugh because _of fuckin course. _

Rage spirals through him and before he knows it, he's standin above the dead geek, cursin and snappin out words he doesn't even process as he kicks the body over and over again, feeling the give of rotten flesh and the snap of bones. Motherfucker. All that goddamn time and effort. Days and nights that he hasn't slept a _second_ of. Without thinkin, he snaps his eyes to where the fawn had gone down, bracin himself to see more red and bits of flesh, but the grass looks undisturbed, the only visible part of the small deer being a hoof and part of its flank. Daryl grits his teeth and does a quick calculation in his head. The fawn can't be more than a hundred pounds, half the size of its mother, but a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. With the amount of people in camp, that should keep them fed for a week at the very least, two if they ration. Daryl really wants to shoot something because _damn it. _He should have dragged the doe back to camp before.

Something at the back of his mind points out that if the walker hadn't been distracted by the deer carcass that he would have kept going, in search of other meat, but Daryl just wants to be mad so he doesn't think about that. He's still kicking the geek when the old man speaks up.

"Calm down son. That's not helping," the man sighs.

Daryl scowls at him and steps over the headless body. "What do you know about it old man?" he growls. The man backs up a few steps and half raises him arms to ward him off. Walsh steps up and sticks the butt of Daryl's gun in his chest, pushin him back a few inches. Daryl shoves it away, aggravated. "Why don't you take that stuid hat and go back to 'On Golden Pond' cuz you don't know jack shit!"

"Back the hell up Dixon," Walsh says, eyes hard and voice authoritative. Daryl wants to fuckin punch him. "We got enough problems." He nods to the geek's body and Daryl rolls his eyes but moves away, stalkin back over to the ruined doe.

"Been trackin this deer for miles," he grumbles under his breath, feeling the ache of exhaustion in him, the burnin behind his eyes and the sweat on his brow. "Gonna drag it back to camp; cook us some venison since ya can't seem to keep fuckin food on the goddamn table." He rips his arrows out of the doe's body and half considers suggestin cuttin around the area the walker gnawed on but thinks against it, not willin to risk the danger of infection. He spits on the useless carcass and straightens up, turnin to look Walsh in the eye.

"Got bout a dozen squirrels," he tells the bastard, adjustin the strap on his back. "That'll have to do." The other man's lip curls and Daryl just dares him to say shit because he isn't in the damn mood for Walsh's fuckin superiority trip. However, before the asshole cop can say a word, a gurglin noise at Daryl's feet has him lookin down in confusion.

The geek's head lays about two feet away, decapitated and writhing slowly, jaws clacking and eyes roving mindlessly over the group of men surroundin it. Daryl scoffs under his breath and hefts up his crossbow. Fuckin city people.

He steadies his arm and aims, squeezin the trigger and watchin the arrow fly true, right through one milky eye. The head stops moving and Daryl places his foot on the skull, rippin out the arrow in disgust. He looks up at the group and sneers. "Gotta be the brain. Don't ya'll know nothin?"

Most of them just stare at him in revulsion, pussies, but one man gazes at him with an unreadable look on his face. Daryl furrows his brow and glares at the stranger. He's never seen this dumb ass before. Brown hair, blue eyes, high brow, sharp nose, and dark stubble. By the way he stands, length of iron held loosely in between lax fingers, the sweat on his brow so early in the mornin and the fact that he's wearin ratty ass tennis shoes, Daryl deduces he's another dick from the city. Great. Just what he needs.

Shovin past the lot of them, Daryl stalks over to where the fawn lays, hidden by long grass and shrubbery. His arrow still juts from his neck and there's a small pool of blood beneath the wound but the rest of the body remains intact, untouched. The hunter's glad he shot the damn thing on a whim or else he'd have nothin but squirrels to show for a two-day hunt. The loss of the doe still riles him but he shoves the thought away and he stoops down, fingers grappling through fur as he hauls the fawn over his shoulder.

He was wrong before. This thing can't be more than eighty pounds. Daryl can already hear Merle's shit as he starts the hundred-yard trek back to camp.

* * *

><p>For what feels like an eternity but can only be a handful of minutes, all of stand before the RV, tense and with bated breath. The children have been herded into the Winnebago, their mother's following them, but the rest of us still wait for the other shoe to drop, staring resolutely at the tree line and waiting for either figures to come running or stumbling out. My heart's been beating on the back of my tongue for centuries now and I'm just about to throw the damn thing up to be rid of the insistent frantic pounding ringing through my skull when I see a flash of blonde exit the trees.<p>

Amy and Andrea walk with their arms around each other, looking shaken but whole. There's no blood on their clothes and their pace is unhurried, measured steps as they whisper to one another. All around me, people slump in relief, laughing because the only other response would be to cry. I'm still standing stock still, muscles shaking with the effort to remain upright, when the two sisters reach the RV.

I don't even say a word but Amy must see it in my face because she smiles and shakes her head. "Everyone's fine," she assures, even though her face is blanched. "There was only one."

Jacqui shudders out an exhale to my right and I hear her mutter, "Thank the Lord."

Hearing those words is like someone suddenly snips the strings that have been holding me up. My right leg buckles out from under me and I am forced to drop my tanto again as I scramble out for purchase. Amy lunges forward and catches me before I can hit the floor. I dig my fingers into her upper arm and I slump against her chest, gasping and heaving. Murmuring words I cannot decipher, I feel Amy begin to steer me backwards and somehow, me make it up into the Winnebago and I'm sitting at the small table in the little kitchenette. A cool bottle of water is pressed into my hand and I shakily bring it up to my mouth, taking a healthy swig. Amy's blue eyes and pale face hover above me, worried and concerned.

"You ok Dree?" I hear her ask. She takes the empty canteen from me and sets it on the table. I blink up at her and take a deep breath, adrenaline still dulling the pain that I know is just waiting to cripple me.

"Y…yeah," I manage. My voice is raspier than it had been before. "Just…I just…"

_Wasn't expecting that. _

_Was scared out of my mind. _

_Was sure someone was going to get hurt. _

_Was pissed that I am so fucking helpless. _

Amy reaches out and squeezes my hand, my fingers limp and trembling. "I know. But it's ok. We're all ok," she murmurs and I have to take another breath, letting those words sink in. I close my eyes and count back from ten. When I open them, the world no longer spins and, already, I can feel the serrated teeth of pain beginning to dig into my skin.

Meeting my friend's gaze, I manage to squeeze her hand back and force my lips to turn upwards at the corners. I don't say anything, I don't think I can, but suddenly Amy's frowning and gazing down at me worriedly and I have just enough time to think about asking her what's wrong when there's a commotion outside and I hear him.

"Merle!"

I stare at Amy in wide-eyed incomprehension for a second. No. That…that's not…oh please don't be—

"Merle! Where the hell are ya? Get yer ugly ass out here!"

Oh god.

Daryl's back.

Ignoring Amy's stilling hands, I haul myself to my feet and stumble to the RV's still open doorway, hearing as Carl and Sophia come out of the back bedroom behind me and start asking questions, their mother's trying to hush them. Jacqui's standing right in front of the Winnebago's steps, Abby at her side, but I look past them, towards the fire pit and lines of drying clothes and I finally see Daryl.

It's been less than forty-eight hours since I last saw him but for some reason, it feels like a goddamn week. He's standing at the ashes of the long dead fire, crossbow lying at his feet in the dirt besides what I realize is a small deer. I blink at the dead animal, dumbly thinking to myself that _holy crap Daryl caught a deer_, before the man himself draws my attention. He's pacing back and forth across the dirt, irritation in every line of his stride. A line of squirrels swings at his side, limp bodies tossed to and fro as Daryl keeps swinging his eyes about, as if he's searching for something. Realization crashes into me about what he is looking for, more specifically _who, _and I have to cling to the doorjamb for support, guilt and a thousand other too tangled up emotions roiling in my gut like a nest of snakes.

Shane is walking behind Daryl, keeping his distance, eyes glued to the other man's form as Daryl makes to stalk towards his tent thirty yards away, the lines of his face severe and deep. There's dirt streaked across nearly every inch of him, dark lines curling down his bare arms, around his collarbones, and his face is about two shades darker than I know it to be. More than that, he looks tired as hell, dark circles under his eyes that are bloodshot red and look bleary, even from this distance. When Shane opens his mouth and calls out to the hunter, I almost want to beg him to stop, to just give Daryl a moment's rest before he pulls the rug out from under him, but Daryl's already turning to Shane and I can do nothing but watch this unfold.

"Ya seen my brother Walsh?" Daryl asks and I don't miss the way Shane grimaces a bit before he rubs a hand nervously through his hair.

"I uh…that's what I gotta talk to you about Di…Daryl," he mutters. "Ya stormed off before I could say anything."

Daryl scowls but stops restlessly moving, staring at Shane with an expectant expression. Processing the men's words, I realize that Daryl must have already been back to his tent and found it empty. I look closely at the older man and can see the suspicion laced through the aggravation on his face. He already knows something isn't right.

"Well what? Spit it out."

Shane sighs and then _he _starts pacing. He slips passed Daryl who steps back a few feet and walks to the end of the RV before swinging around to face the hunter, walking towards him and then backpedaling slowly as if he thinks better of it at the last minute. "There…a group went into the city yesterday," he starts off and I can see the way he struggles with his words. Behind Daryl, the rest of the men walk up and I can see wariness on each one of their faces, blood staining the multitude of weapons they have grasped in their hands. "Merle went with them. There…there was a problem."

Collectively, everyone seems to hold his or her breath as Daryl processes this information. I know the exact moment when he gets what Shane's implying. The anger is startled right off his face, replaced by a stunned disbelief, wide eyed and open mouthed for just a split second, before a more neutral mask slips into place. Reflexive. Ingrained. Like a wall Daryl learned how to build years ago and as spent his whole life perfecting. The knob of his Adam's apple bobs beneath the skin of his throat and he stares resolutely at Shane who is doing his best not to flinch under the intense stare. He starts to pace again, moving in a slow circle opposite to Shane. It's defensive, instinctive, and the movement makes me think of when Brenda Johnson's dog next door broke it's leg somehow but wouldn't let anyone get near it, snarling and snapping at anyone who got too close.

"He dead?" Daryl asks gruffly and I'm floored to hear the tremble in his voice.

"We're not sure."

Shane's response riles Daryl up again because the rage he is known for explodes across his features and he takes half a threatening step towards the former cop. "The hell ya mean ya ain't sure? He either is or he ain't!"

People start to shift uncomfortably as Daryl's voice reaches an enraged pitch. To the right of the RV doorway, Andrea mutters something like, "Here we go" and Jacqui only nods her head in response. A knot forms at the base of my throat because this is it and for all our discussion last night, Shane, just about the worst person possible for the job, is about to break this news to Daryl. Dale's words from last night echo in my mind. _"I don't see a rational discussion to be had from that."_

Rational? I don't see a _bloodless _discussion to be had.

Suddenly, from near the fire pit, I see a flicker of movement, a white blob, and I look up just in time to see Rick approach Daryl, stepping quickly and purposefully in his direction. Oh wait. Scratch that. Shane _isn't _the worst possible person for the job. Here he comes.

"Look," Rick says and Daryl whips around to glare at him, fists clenching at his side. "There's no easy way to say this so I'll just say it." Rick reaches Daryl's side and gets right up in his face. I grimace and have to bite my tongue because that is basically the worst move Rick can make. Daryl hates when people get too close to him. Especially strangers. And especially as aggressively as Rick has done it. I don't think the other man meant to be so forward, just trying to be blunt to get over the biggest hump of this conversation, but I can see the defensive posture Daryl takes, can hear the reflexive snarl in his voice even if I can't see his face.

"Who the hell are you?" he demands.

"Rick Grimes."

Daryl snorts and then sways forward to growl in Rick's face before stepping back. "Tch. Rick Grimes. You got somethin ya wanna tell me?"

Rick purses his lips and mulls over his words for a split second. I pray that he comes up with the right reply. "Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal. He…he's still there."

Blunt and to the point. No tact. No bull shit. In any other situation, I'd commend Rick on his candidness. Right now I wishing he had put on the kid gloves.

Daryl's back goes rigid and I can see his shoulders still as he stops breathing. Five seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. I'm just starting to worry that he might pass out from lack of air when he jerks into motion. Whirling around, Daryl paces three feet angrily, heaving shallow breaths in and out. He's literally five feet away from me and something twists inside my chest as I watch the stoic/angry mask he has on fall, a stunned and broken look shinning through the cracks.

"H…hold on. Let me _process _this," Daryl snaps but it isn't his usual ire. It's something else, more desperate, more heartfelt. He swipes angrily at his eyes and something in me just _gives _because out of all the responses I had envisioned for this moment, Daryl _crying _was never one of them. It feels surreal. It can't be happening. For a wild moment, I think this is just some bizarre damn dream, this whole morning, and I'm actually still sleeping in my tent, waiting for the sun to rise.

But then Daryl's voice is exploding, loud and all too real, and I know I can't be anything but awake.

"You're saying you handcuffed my brother to a roof and you _left _him _**there**_?" he screams, taking two quick steps and getting into Rick's face. The people gathered in front of the RV start to murmur worriedly to each other and I feel Amy's hand on my shoulder, her mouth at my ear but I can't hear a word she's saying. All my attention is diverted five feet in front of me and I can barely breathe.

Rick falls back a step, finally some worry eclipsing his features, and drops his eyes. "Y…yeah," he says lamely because really? What else could he fucking say?

Daryl is almost directly in front of me now, facing Rick, vibrating with the intensity of his emotion. I can only see the profile of his face, the taunt line of his jaw, the left corner of his mouth, pressed thin with anger, but I know what's going to happen a split second before it does just by the way he sways on his feet, one step back, two steps forward, and by the way his chest starts heaving, breaths coming in great gasps.

I had expected the explosion of anger, the wordless yell, but the rope of squirrel Daryl throws at Rick's face was something new. Thankfully, Rick ducks just in time but he doesn't move fast enough to evade Daryl and the hunter is almost upon him before Shane comes out of nowhere and sidelines him to the ground. I gasp as Daryl bounced hard on the dirt and unconsciously I move forward, stumbling out of the RV and barely catching myself on Jacqui's shoulder before I fall on my face. The older woman spins to look at me with wide eyes but I ignore her and try to move past. Amy's suddenly at my side again and the grip she has on my elbow is tight. She shakes her head at me when I try to yank free and I open my mouth to tell her to let me go when Shane's voice suddenly grates upon my ears, loud and worried.

"Watch the knife Dixon!"

Whirling around, I see Daryl pushing himself up, his face twisted in rage as he brandishes the eight-inch knife that I've seen him gut a squirrel with in nothing flat. Rick and Shane stand with their hands raised to ward Daryl off and it seems to come in handy when the hunter lunges at Rick, swinging the knife viciously at his face. Rick manages to shove the knife away seconds before it can reach him and he stumbles away, out of Daryl's reach. I hear Lori call out her husband's name behind me, fearful and distressed, but it's eclipsed by Daryl's howl as he whirls on Shane, murder in his eyes. Shane curses and reaches around, fumbling at the small of his back, and I only have to see a glimpse of his gun's handle before I wrenching out of Amy's grip and shoving through the crowd.

* * *

><p>There's nothing but rage and hatred fuelin him now. His vision is crimson red and the poundin of his heart sounds like drums of war. He doesn't even think when he slams into the ground, the air knocked clean out of him. He just reaches for his hip and yanks the knife out, jumpin to his feet when his eyes can focus again and turnin to the son of a bitch closest to him.<p>

Fuckin Rick Grimes. Daryl lunges at him without a second's hesitation, wantin to stain that white shirt of his scarlet. He wanted to break his skin, his bones, his teeth because this _motherfucker _killed his brother! Left him like a damn dog to die and Daryl will be damned if he doesn't return the favor. All he can think is _MerleMerleMerle _and _deaddeaddead _and that the last thing he said to his brother, his last of fuckin kin, was **fuck you. **

Daryl lashes out with a viciousness that would make Merle proud. The keen edge of his blade is inches away from tearin through skin when the bastard ducks out of the way last minute, stumblin out of his reach. Behind him, Daryl hears a curse and he whirls to find Walsh starin at him, mouth open and flappin but Daryl can't hear a word as he charges forward. All he can hear is the blood in his ears and that voice in his head screamin _MerleMerle—_

"Daryl!"

The sound of his name stops him short and in the haze of his mind it takes him a second to figure out _why. _Without meanin to, Walsh still feet away, his eyes flicker to the side, to where the kid's voice came from, and the second he sees her, the air burns out of his lungs.

She's standin five feet away from him, wide-eyed and barefoot. Her hair is stickin out at odd angles around her head and she's dressed in an oversized dark green shirt that almost reaches her knees, the bottoms of black shorts peekin out from beneath the hem. But that's not what makes Daryl feel like he's been punched in the chest, lungs bruised and empty.

It's the bandages on her arm, haphazard and amateur, bulky along her wrist and hand. It's the matching mess of first aid on her leg, cloth windin half way up her calf. It's the bruises along her arms, dark and angry looking, spots of black and blue framin her neck like some perverse jewelry. Above everythin, it's her goddamn face. Those green eyes of hers stare out from under swollen and battered skin, the left one half shut and an ugly dark purple color. Tape sits high on the bridge of her nose; butterfly stitches hold the edges of gashes together along her brow and temple; a piece of gauze engulfs the whole of her right cheek and there's a deep split in her lower lip, right down the middle. She looks like she's been beaten to hell in back. She looks like she shouldn't even be fuckin conscious but there she is, standin with her lips parted around the letters of his name and her green eyes bright as damn ever, locked on his face. Daryl feels the knife in his hand lower almost completely to his side because what the _**fuck **_happened? He'd been gone for a damn day and—

He doesn't even get to finish his thought before somethin slams into him again and he's bein whirled around. Hands grapple at him and he fights instinctively but one set pins his arms to his side, forcin him to drop the knife, and the other winds around his neck and head, holdin him steady and makin it hard to breathe. He scrabbles at the tight forearm around his neck but the hold is rock solid and he gains no leverage.

"You best let me go!" he shouts at the son of a bitch holdin him.

Walsh chuckles breathlessly at his ear and brings him to the ground. "Nah, I think it's better if I don't."

Daryl tries to struggle again but the effort just leaves him light headed. "Choke hold's illegal," he wheezes out thoughtlessly, still snarlin and kickin though he knows it ain't gonna get him any where.

"Yeah, you can file a complaint."

The bastard's tauntin words rile Daryl up again and he redoubles his efforts to get loose, vision swimmin with black spots as the oxygen in his lungs deplete. Suddenly, a white blur kneels down in front of him and that son of a bitch Grimes is talkin slowly and calmly. Daryl still wants to stab him.

"I'd like to have a calm discussion on this topic," he tells Daryl, bending down to look him in the eye. "Do you think we can manage that?" Daryl doesn't respond, trying to work up enough saliva to spit in his face. Grimes gets even closer and repeats his request. _"Do you think we can manage that?"_

Fuck you is what Daryl wants to say but he doesn't have enough air to say it and he know the fucker Walsh will choke him out if he gets the chance so he forces himself to nod. Walsh tightens his grip again and Daryl thinks that he might just choke him out anyway before he's tossed in the dirt, Walsh quickly steppin away.

He sits there gaspin as Grimes squats in front of him again and starts talkin. "What I did was not on a whim," he says. Daryl lifts his head and pins the son of a bitch with a watery glare. "Your brother does not work and play well with others. You _know _that."

Of course he fuckin knew that. He's known Merle all his goddamn life but who was this fucker, who was fuckin Rick Grimes, to tell him about his brother. Daryl's just got enough air back in his lungs to retort when another voice speaks up.

"It's not Rick's fault. I had the key."

Lookin up, Daryl sees one of the niggers standin a few feet away, eyes downcast and jaw workin like he actually feels guilty. He looks up and meets Daryl's eyes. "I dropped it," he confesses.

"You couldn't pick it the fuck up?" Daryl snarls. The image of his brother—tough as shit, the biggest asshole he ever knew, Merle Dixon—chained down and laid out like a buffet for a horde of walkers makes his stomach heave and he fights down the urge to gag, eyes stinging with more than just dirt and sweat.

The nigger looks actually offended by his tone. "Well, I dropped it in a drain," he grinds out and, suddenly, Grimes is not the only one Daryl wants to fuckin stab.

* * *

><p>At T-Dogs recounting of what happened in Atlanta, I see Daryl's face fall again, a split second crumple, before he drops his head, effectively hiding his face, and takes a deep breath. And then another. And another before he finally starts to shift in the dirt he's kneeling in, fingers digging into the loose soil as he heaves himself up. Shane and Rick hover uncertainly around him, waiting for him to go off again, but Daryl ignores them both. He locks eyes with T-Dog and stalks forward.<p>

"If that's supposed to make me feel better it fuckin don't," he growls, tossing a handful of dirt to the side roughly.

There's a sudden hand on my shoulder, tugging me gently back, and I turn to see Jacqui givin me a tight lipped look as she drags me closer to the RV. When I'm within arms reach, Lori and Andrea slowly ease in front of me, as if to form a barrier of protection. I don't have to hear them say it when they think they need to keep the _other _Dixon brother as far away from me as possible. I scowl at the back of their heads, but crane my neck to glance at where Daryl is shifting angrily in front of T-Dog.

"I know," says the darker skinned man and I can hear the actual guilt in his tone. "But maybe this will."

My mouth falls open in surprise because this is it, the moment of truth, and T-Dog is actually…is actually going to tell Daryl the full story; I can see it in his eyes.

"I chained the door to the roof so the geeks couldn't get at him, with a padlock. I'm pretty sure that thing could hold them pack."

"_Pretty sure?" _

T-Dog winces at Daryl's caustic tone but it's Rick who responds, stepping up from behind Daryl, making the hunter flinch away at his proximity. "It's gotta count for something," he says gently, no longer seeing Daryl as a possible lethal threat but as a man who might of lost his brother.

Daryl glares at him hotly, mouth working, but then something flickers in his eyes and his face pinches together, features contorting so extremely that I have this irrational fear that they will get stuck like that. He ducks his head again and I'm just close enough to hear the huff of a breath that would be a sob if Daryl let it, to see the way he scrubs at his eyes again.

"H…hell with all y'all! Just tell me where he is, so's I can go get him," he says and it's this quality of his voice, a vague helplessness and something akin to sorrow that makes me realize…Daryl doesn't know if he's going back for his _brother _or for a corpse, moving or non.

Two days ago, I told myself I was done with Daryl Dixon. Or at least I tried to. I'm not even sure I came to a consensus on that decision. But, either way, seeing him here, now, with dirt covering every inch of him and drenched in sweat from a hunt he did to make sure we all stay alive just _that _much longer; with that goddamn tremble is his voice and the way his shoulders are hunched, the way he's almost folded in on himself, the same posture he had the day I first offered a truce between us…I realize I can't fucking follow through with it.

I don't know if that makes me weak or strong.

"I'll show you."

Daryl snaps his up and his eyes find mine, narrowed and guarded, like he just remembered I was here. Lori and Andrea whirl on me, mouths agape, ready to start spewing God only knows what, but I slip past them, doing my best to stand tall as I step out towards the hunter.

Just like everyone else has for almost the past day, his gaze clicks over every injury before settling on my eyes. I swallow sharply and duck my chin ever so slightly, feeling subconscious about his brother's fingerprints that stand out lividly against my neck. "I was on the trip," I tell him. "I can show you the building where…where Merle's at."

I try not to congratulate myself on how my voice is steady when I say his name.

For a moment, Daryl just stares at me. Despite the red rims and the dark purple bags beneath them, his eyes are as bright as ever, irises a fathomless river blue until it clashes with the thin hazel shore just around the pupil. They're clear as any water I've ever seen and yet, in this moment, I can't tell a single thing that is going on behind them. I'm fidgeting and just about to open my mouth and ask if Daryl had heard me when someone else speaks up.

"No. I will."

My brow furrows at the voice and I turn to see Rick a few feet away. There's a determined set to his jaw and I know he's telling the truth. "I'm going back," he says definitively. "I'll go with you Daryl."

And, before I can say a word edgewise, the camp erupts into arguments and I'm lost in a frantic tide of words. Wiggling out of the way, trying to let Andrea get past as she says something rather forcefully at Rick, I cast my eyes about, searching for blue eyes and dirty skin.

But Daryl's already yards away, his rigid back facing me as he strides quickly towards his tent. It might be the distance, or the way that the pain in my limbs, under my skin, has finally caught up with me and made everything just slightly hazy, but I think I see his shoulders hitch and I might just hear the distant, muffled sounds of a sob.

#

"You're fucking insane. You know that?"

I sigh and close my eyes, blinding popping two Advil in my mouth and chasing them with a gulp of water. "I heard you the first fifty times Amy," I respond in exasperation.

There's a harsh exhale of breath and then the gutted car seat I'm sprawled on dips as Amy sits down roughly beside me. "This isn't a joke Audrey," she says and I open my eyes tiredly, flopping my head to the side and meeting her angry gaze.

"I know it's not. But what's done is done all right? Can you just leave it?"

Amy gapes at me incredulously and scoffs. "No! I can't 'just leave it'! Audrey, they're going _back _for Merle." She gestures vaguely to our right, out towards where the men—Rick, Glenn, T-Dog, and Shane—are speaking in hushed voices near the line of cars. Daryl is nowhere in sight. "You understand that right?"

Rolling my eyes, I sit up with a wince and set the canteen in my hand on the stacked stones of the fire pit. "Yeah I kind of got that when I _offered _to go with Daryl. Kind of understood what I was suggesting."

"Oh don't even get me _started _on that. That's a whole other insane marker! Dree…Dree look at me!"

Sighing again, I turn to face Amy with a deadpan look. "What Amy?" I ask tonelessly.

The blond scowls and reaches out suddenly, pressing harshly against the gauze on my cheek. "Ow!" I hiss, pulling away. The abused area throbs with pain. "What the hell is that for?"

Amy shifts so she's completely facing me, pinning me with the full effect of her glower. "That's for being insane Audrey! Because you're _fucking insane. _You're letting them go fetch that son of a bitch _without _telling anyone what he did!"

"Amy," I say slowly, patience running thin. Thankfully, no one is within our immediate vicinity to hear her words. "In case you've forgotten, Rick, Glenn, _and _T-Dog where in Atlanta with me the last time. They kind of witnessed everything first hand. They made the decision to go back on their own."

A finger is suddenly stabbed in my face, inches away from my nose and I go cross-eyed trying to keep it in focus. "That's bullshit and you know it Dree," Amy scowls. "Rick only offered to go back because _you _brought up the option in the first place. He wasn't about to let _you _go alone in your condition. He _had _to say something. And then he pulled Glenn and T-Dog along with him!"

Something akin to truth rings sharply in her words and I force myself to look away. "Rick said something about guns," I mutter to Amy, remembering the spare word or two I heard from the RV a few minutes ago, when I was in there rummaging for pain pills. "It's not like they're _solely _going back for Merle. With that walker showing up this morning, we need all the weapons we can get." It's a weak excuse at best and Amy knows it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her open her mouth to argue but I wave her off before she can start.

"Besides, Merle was higher than hell in the city. I'm not defending him but Rick threw a whole bag of drugs over the edge of the roof from what Glenn said. He's probably sobered out by now and I doubt he's going to start shit if and when he does return. Not with Shane and Rick and a fuck ton of guns between him and I. It's _fine _Amy."

"It is _so __**not **_fine Dree." Amy stands up and towers over me, making me crane my neck back to look into her face. Her mouth is pinched and there is a fire in her pale blue eyes. "Why are you doing this? I get that you didn't want to talk about it before but that was when we thought Merle was dead. Well, he's alive and he's coming back. Are you really going to keep this silence? _Why?"_

I don't have an answer for her and end up averting my eyes. T-Dog is up near the RV now and I see him talking to Dale. He looks cowed almost and I tilt my head, trying to decipher the words his lips are framing when Amy steps into my line of view and I'm left staring at the pale yellow expanse of her shirt, faded grey stars stretched across her abdomen.

"Is this because of Daryl?" she asks somewhere above my head. Something in my flinches at the sound of his name and I stare resolutely at Amy's stomach, refusing to meet her eyes. "Because Dree, I don't know what you think you owe the jerk but you don't owe him _anything. _Fine, sure. He brought you to camp but you've more than made up with it in blood and sweat. Hell, I think he owes _you _for what his brother pulled yesterday."

I exhale harshly and unconsciously start to pick at the ace bandage around my wrist. "Daryl had no control over what Merle did." My voice is defensive and I'm well aware of that. "And I'm not doing anything because of anything all right? I'm sitting right here, on my ass, while Daryl goes and fetches his brother. It's none of my damn business."

Amy mutters something under her breath and then suddenly kicks me in the shin. She has enough common sense though to kick me in my left leg. Yelping with the pain, I snap my head up to curse at her but her livid expression stops me short. "Do you even hear the BS coming out of your mouth Audrey? No, don't answer that. Look, here's the deal. Either you tell Shane about Merle," she growls. "Or _I _will."

Staring into her eyes, I know she isn't kidding. I purse my lips at her, defiant, but she points to where Shane and the other men are standing, as if she's my mother, telling me to go to my room. "Amy," I start off, almost at a whine but she takes a step towards the red Charger that Shane is leaning against and I sigh. I know I've lost.

"Ok! All right! I'll go tell him now. Happy?"

By the cast of her face, she's anything but.

It takes some maneuvering, and a lot of fucking willpower, but I manage to get on my feet again, still bare, aching a whole bunch more than they had been an hour ago when I stumbled out of my tent, and start a tentative limp towards Shane. Amy offered to go with me, be my proverbial and literal crutch to lean on, but I shook her off saying if she was making me do this, I'd rather do it alone. She looked a little hurt but relented, stepping aside and letting me by.

Glenn is propped up against the driver's door of the Charger, looking anxious and alone since T-Dog was still near the RV. It still pisses me off that Rick dragged Glenn into his quest for guns/rescue Merle plot but, as I said to Amy, what's done is done. I just which my stomach would get the memo and quit tying itself in knots.

On either side of Glenn stand Rick and Shane and, by the looks of it, the two are in a heated discussion. Rick seems to be begging Shane to listen to him, dramatic gestures and a pleading face but the other man refuses to look at him. Shane has his fingers laced behind his head and glares angrily at the sky, jaw ticking with each one of Rick's ardent words. Every so often, Glenn will try to interject something but Rick always cuts him off so the younger man just subsides against the car. Each line of Shane's body screams angry and I can't help but laugh when I think about just what I'm planning on telling him and the reaction I'm assured to get. I'm betting on Shane exploding and slashing the cube van's tires, handcuffing everyone to the Winnebago for good measure.

Why am I doing this again? Oh right. Amy. I love her and everything, and while I do see her point, that doesn't mean I want to freaking do this. By any stretch of the imagination. God this is going to suck.

I'm only a few yards away from the arguing men, still unseen by either of them or Glenn, when a sound to my right draws my attention. Casting half a glance towards the noise, hand twitching for the tanto at my hip on reflex, I turn to see Daryl stalking around the side of the cube van, eyes glued to the ground as he slips out of sight. Something shoots down my spine at the sight of the older man and I purse my lips, glancing from the direction he just disappeared in back to where Rick and Shane are still arguing. From there, I cast a look over my shoulder and I see Amy watching me. She catches my eye with a confused tilt to her head but then Daryl suddenly curses, very loudly, from somewhere near the van and her eyes go wide, darting to the van and back to me again. Understanding dawns on her face, and she opens her mouth, half rising to stop me, but I whirl around and make for the van as fast as I possibly can, knowing that she won't have the courage, or the stupidity, to follow me. She'll scold my ear off for this later, I know, but right now…I need to talk to Daryl.

* * *

><p>The moment that damn nigger told him there was a chance Merle was alive, Daryl wanted to jump in a fuckin car and speed towards Atlanta. And yet, here he is, half a damn hour later waitin on all the idiots to get their shit together so they can leave. If Daryl knew where his brother was, he would have been long gone by now. As it is, he might yet just leave everyone else behind and tear Atlanta apart buildin by buildin until he found the right roof. He snarls at nothin in particular and stomps around the side of the van for the hundredth time, kicking at the front tire on the passenger's side for good measure. He tells himself it's to check the pressure; he knows deep down it's to stave off the pressure buildin behind his still stingin eyes.<p>

Angrily, he scrubs at his face again, feelin the grit of dirt and dried sweat rub against his hand. His stomach growls in hunger but he refuses to acknowledge it. His brother is trapped on a _roof, _has been for twenty-four hours, with no water, no food, no shade and probably a million geeks tryin to get at him. His hunger was fuckin insignificant. Growlin to himself, Daryl glances up and squints at the bright midday light. Fuck. The assholes are takin forever. How long does he have to wait?

Suddenly, there's a muffled crack off to his side, a breaking branch, and Daryl whirls around, reachin for his crossbow out of reflex. He's just considerin yellin at whoever snuck up on him, a stupid damn move, they should have said somethin if they didn't want to get shot in the face, but the figure that stands five feet away stuns him into silence.

The kid offers him a halfhearted smile, the bruises on her face twistin into interestin patterns with the movement. She's leanin against the side of the van and Daryl doesn't miss the way she shifts all her weight onto her left leg, the right one lifted a few inches off the ground. He thinks she looks like a damn flamingo.

"H…hi," she says tentatively and her voice is wrecked, like she's been smokin a pack of cigarettes a day for her entire life and downin a fifth of whiskey every night before bed. Daryl's eyes drop to her neck, remembering the vague bruises he had seen before, but the kid has her chin ducked down, hidin the spots from view. He refuses to acknowledge the part of his brain that is screamin to know what happened and the burnin sensation in his veins that makes him feel a different kind of pissed off than he already was. It's sorta like the fire he felt when Walsh grabbed the kid two days ago, the violent urge to break the asshole's teeth. He shoves all those thoughts away, as well as the sudden images of blonde hair and his own blue eyes, starin back at him as his mama cried, tryin to ice the bruises on her skin.

Bringin his gaze back to her face, Daryl doesn't say a word, just continues to scowl as thick as he can. He hasn't forgotten the decision he made in the woods. He was done with this stupid kid. Look where she had gotten him: standin by a fuckin van, prayin to any power left in the world that Merle ain't dead cuz Daryl's last words to him were _fuck you _and Daryl might not always like Merle, hell most of the time he don't, but Merle's the last family in the world he's got and he ain't about to let him die. So yeah, he was **done.**

His thoughts must reflect on his face or somethin cuz the kid grimaces and averts her eyes. A silence falls between 'em and it grates on Daryl's already frayed nerves so he makes to spin around, plannin to walk round the other side of the van just so he doesn't have to _look _at her any more but he doesn't get more than a step away before she's callin out to him again.

"W…wait! Please!"

Daryl stutters for a moment, a quick hesitation burnin through him, but that's all she needs to reach him, fingers cautiously brushin the bare skin of his shoulder. He wrenches away at the contact and whirls on her.

"Don't fuckin touch me." The kid flinches again but drops her hand, curlin in to cup the elbow of her opposite arm, both crossed protectively in front of her. "Sorry," she murmurs, bitin her lip before wincin as she presses on the split in the skin. She's only bout two feet away now and Daryl can smell the blood on her, metallic underneath the sharp sting of medicine and sweat. She looks up at him from under her lashes and her green eyes, with the dark bruises around them, look sad and apologetic. Daryl wants to scream at her to leave him the fuck alone but the words are stuck in his chest, weighin him down.

"The hell ya want?" is what he does manage and even those words come out stilted and jagged, sharp on their way out of his mouth.

The kid doesn't respond for a moment but then she takes a shallow breath, shoulders risin just barely as she goes to say somethin, liftin her head to look him in the face. Her lips part, she swallows sharply, and just as she is bout to say somethin, a muted growl cuts her off. Confusion flashes in the depths of her green eyes and Daryl mirrors it for a moment before the sound repeats itself and the kid drops her gaze, right to Daryl's stomach. It snarls like it knows it finally has some attention and Daryl clenches his gut, tryin to get it to shut the fuck up.

"O…oh," the kid says softly before she snaps her head up and looks Daryl in the eye again. "You're…you're hungry." It's not a question so Daryl doesn't give an answer but it seems she doesn't need one cuz understandin enters her gaze. "You haven't eaten since you left right?" she asks rhetorically. Her green eyes bore into his and he snarls at the kindness in her gaze. He doesn't want it and he doesn't want her here. He wants to fuckin leave already and go get Merle before any more time is wasted.

"I'm…I'm sorry," she continues and she takes a step back, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. "Do you want me to grab you something real quick? I think there are some leftovers from breakfast, nothing much but enough to take the edge off until you get back." Daryl remains silent but the kid suddenly cocks her head, brow furrowed, makin the bruises dance again.

"Oh wait. Hold on." She drops her left hand and fumbles with her shirt, tryin to push it out of the way. It keeps fallin back into place every time she tries so finally, she wraps the fingers of her right hand, the only parts that are visible beneath the bandages, and lifts the fabric out of the way slightly. Daryl catches just a glimpse of more bandages beneath the shirt before she drops it and suddenly holds out her hand towards him.

A brightly colored rectangle sits in the palm of her hand, the wrapper shinnin dully in the dim light filterin through the trees their standin under. He stares at it for a moment before lookin back at the kid. She smiles, small and with hints of pain around the edges, but there nonetheless.

"It's a protein bar," she states, pushin her hand closer to him. "I…I had a few left in my pack and well…it has all the nutrients of a full meal so…you know…" She trails off with a shrug and looks at him expectantly, waitin for him to take it. The look in her eyes is soft and open, much like it had been when they were down near the quarry together, blood on their wrists and sweat on their brows and pieces of dryin meats stretched between 'em. Or when she read to him, laughin as he scowled and grumbled over and over bout her stupid poems she loved so much. He's only seen that look once before, when he was five and a little dark skinned boy named Ted said he and Daryl should be _friends. _And hasn't that what the kid has been sayin all along? That she wanted to be friends?

Merle's face swims before his eyes.

Fuck that. And fuck her.

Sneerin in disgust, Daryl takes a step back and spits at the kid's feet. Green eyes go wide with a bewildered hurt but he doesn't give her the breath to speak. "I don't need yer fuckin food and I don't want ya fuckin anywhere near me. Just leave me the hell alone and go back to yer goddamn diary and yer fuckin _friends _cuz I sure as **hell **ain't one of em," he snarls at her.

Audrey gapes at him, mouth soundlessly movin for a minute, before she stutters into sound. "D…Daryl…I…if this is about the other day, I'm s—"

"The other day?" Daryl nearly shouts. There's this itch under her skin and that voice at the back of his head is suddenly chantin _MerleMerleMerle _again and _deaddyingdead. _"Ya left my brother as walker bait! Ya left him to fuckin die!"

She flinches at his words and draws back as if she's afraid. Good, Daryl thinks. "I…I didn't…I'm _sorry," _she says. There's desperation in her tone and when she looks him in the eye again, her green eyes plead with him. "I didn't even know Merle was left behind until everyone had already piled into the van, until we were already driving away."

"And that makes it _better?"_

The kid swallows sharply and he suddenly realizes the guilt in the lines of her face. "No," she admits, shaking her head. "But I…I'm sorry all right? If I could change it…if I could go back…I—"

Somethin unhinges in Daryl at her remorseful tone and he lashes out violently. The hollow bang the van makes when his fist collides against it echoes in time to the pulsin in his hand, still bruised and slightly swollen from when he decked Merle. Merle, his brother. Who could now be dead. And this kid was part of it. Daryl clenches his eyes shut and leans his forehead against the balled shape of his fist, still pressed into the warm, dented metal of the van. Tears burn the back of his eyes and he bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood, anythin to eclipse the wild poundin of his heart.

"Daryl?"

The sound of his name breaks through the haze of his mind again but, unlike before, it doesn't draw him up short; it pushes him into action. Snappin open his eyes, Daryl pushes himself away from the van and whirls on the kid again, takin a step towards her and watchin when she takes an involuntary step back, stumblin on her bandaged foot. She stares at him in wary confusion and Daryl snarls.

"Shut the fuck up," he growls at her, low and as menacin as he can. The kid blinks but doesn't retreat any farther, just stares up at him opening and defiantly. "Shut the fuck up and don' act like yer sorry when I know ya fuckin ain't."

She furrows her brow and narrows her eyes, tries to ask, "What are you—?" but he cuts her off again.

"I know ya ain't sorry bout Merle," he says. "So stop damn fakin it."

"Whoa…wait! You think I'm _faking _being sorry? What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Yer just like every other asshole here!" He stabs an arm blindly towards camp behind her, arm shakin with the intensity of his anger. He hadn't realized how close he had gotten until now but the kid and he were basically chest to chest, her shaky exhales skatin acoss his chin and neck, the skin of his bicep brushin the shell of her ear. "Ya only care bout yer own damn self. Probably were happy to be rid of a Dixon huh? Well ya know what? Fine! Fuck all of y'all! The _second _Merle and I get back, we're gone. See how long ya dumb fucks survive then!"

He doesn't know why he says it but he isn't thinkin. He's just so fuckin angry and this damn stupid kid with her smiles and her eyes and her perpetual offers of friendship and he might have…he might have even…before…but she left his brother chained in the city and he can't fuckin look at her, not when the blood on her hands just might be Merle's. There's somethin writhin in his chest and it feels acutely like betrayal.

The kid is stunned into silence and the only sounds left are Daryl's harsh breathing and the sound of his thrashin heart. For an endless moment, Daryl just stands there, glarin into her slack face, shock bleedin out of every pore of her. She's not even breathin; the skin of his neck is only damp with his own sweat.

When she finally remembers how to speak, it's quiet and hushed and toneless. "You…you really think I left Merle there…on purpose?" Daryl scowls at the way her eyes have gone blank and unreadable, the way she's stepped back and it feels like there's a mile between 'em when there's less than five feet. He pinches his lips and continues to glower at her, not sayin a word. He doesn't need to; she can see the response clear as day on his face.

The expressionless mask of hers slips, crumbles piece by piece, and suddenly there's anger and hurt so deep he fuckin swears her bottle glass green eyes are cuttin into him. Her hand scrambles for purchase long the side of the van as she shoves herself away and she's shakin her head back and forth, the ends of her short hair whipin side to side. It takes Daryl a moment to realize she's laughin.

"What the hell ya laughin at?" he snaps, irritation like hives beneath his skin. He feels like she's laughin at him and it pisses him off, a flush that he will swear is due to anger crawlin across his cheeks.

The kid continues to chuckle but the sound is off and when she meets his eyes, they're hard. Her lip curls into a sneer, an impressive one that he last saw directed at Walsh: one of fury and rage and a pain that has nothin to do with her battered body. "You don't know fucking _anything _Daryl. You have no idea…" Her jaw clicks shut and she shakes her again. "Never mind. You know what? Just forget it. You wouldn't even begin to understand…"

She abruptly turns to leave, unbalanced on her injured leg, but at the last second whirls around and gets right up in his face. Daryl tries to backpedal, get away, but she suddenly grips his wrist as tight as she can, a perverse parallel to what he had done not two days before. He attempts to yank away, she was too fuckin close, the hot line of her body pressed into his arm but then she shoves him away again. Stumblin back, Daryl lifts his head to curse at her but she's already backin away.

The second he locks eyes with her, one last time, he feels disoriented and confused cuz if he didn't know better, by the shattered and surrendered look in her face, he'd say he had time traveled two days in the past, with the words, _ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble _just rollin off his tongue. The expression nearly stuns the anger out of him because who the hell was she to feel hurt? It wasn't her brother stuck in a death trap! It wasn't her last of kin she was just about to lose! Where the hell does she come off lookin at him like _**that**_?

He doesn't know and he doesn't have time to wonder. The kid is already miles gone and getting farther and farther away; the look in her eyes makes it seem like she's not even in camp anymore, not even in Georgia. "I hope you find your brother Daryl," she suddenly says to him and before he can think of a response, before he can process her words and the actual fuckin _sincerity _in them, she's slippin around the back of the van and he loses sight of her.

Thunder rumbles in the distance and when Daryl looks down, the red wrapper of the protein bar glints up at him from between his fingers.

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><p><strong>There ya go :) What do you guys think? Let me know please!<strong>

**Also, I'm sure you guys noticed but I'm going to point it out anyway, any place where there was a # was a shift in scene but NOT in POV. It remained Audrey's. Anyplace where there was a complete line switched over to Daryl's POV. Just a new format. Hope that makes the story a little easier to read :)**

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**

**PS: AUTHORS NOTE PLEASE READ!**

**OH! Forgot to mention! I know that TWD series doesnt have a definite timeline but after long consideration, I have decided to put this story in the ending of summer/beginning of fall. So, actually Audrey came into camp in the middle of August and since it's been a month now it's the middle of September by THIS chapter. I also went back and revised her birthday to September 30th instead of June. :) Hope that clarifies things up!**

PPS: Also, i wrote a TWD oneshot recently so if you are all so inclined go check it out :D It's called **In Memoriam** and is a future fic featuring Carl. Hope you guys enjoy it!


	19. Inertia

**Ack! Sorry for the wait! D: I actually had some family issues and then college issues and then just general writer's block with this :/ Sorry again! But I hope you enjoy and remember to review! :D Your reviews literally keep me going guys and I love hearing from you so keep it up! ^^**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing TWD related. **

**Warnings: Language and racial slurs**

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><p><strong>Chapter 19: Inertia<strong>

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><p>I knew this boy once, a very long time ago. His name was Adam Keene and he was thirteen years old. He had this bright red hair that refused to be tamed and a galaxy of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the arches of his cheeks. He was tall for his age and thin; arms like toothpicks and legs like twigs. Quiet and reserved, he barely said a word to me for the first few months that I knew him.<p>

But he was the first one to come to me when my first taste of blood still clung to the backs of my teeth, like old copper pennies, and I remember the words he had said to me till this day, though it's been over a decade since he said them. He didn't wipe my tears and he didn't press a tissue to the split in my lip. He offered no kind words or empty platitudes. Instead, he had wrapped his thin fingers around the curve of my elbow and gently pulled me to my feet, out of the corner I had been crouched in crying for who knows how long. He had asked if I could walk. Not if I was ok, not if I was hurt because he knew that I wasn't and he could see that I was. He asked if I could walk. Bewildered and still reeling, all I could do was nod my head.

Adam had pursed his lips, thin as the rest of him and just as pale, and said _good. _Just good. Then he told me to stop crying and to go up to my room; to stay there for the rest of the night unless I was specifically called down. He told me to be quiet, to make not a single sound. I was five years old and scared out of my mind, my cheek still burning hot and pennies sliding down my tongue. I'd like to say that I simply nodded and did as I was told. In reality, I just started to cry again. Adam had let it go on for a few minutes but when my less than soft sobs began to draw attention, shifting furniture in another room, muffled words and the sound of shattering glass, he had dropped into a crouch in front of me, grabbed my chin, and ordered me to stop crying. He didn't shout nor were his words threatening. If anything, they were devoid of any emotion, flat and blunt with no inflection. I don't know why, but that time, I listened. My sobs tapered down to soft snuffles and restricted breathing, my nose clogged up and my breaths wheezing out of my throat. I still tasted blood and my lip still stung but my eyes stopped leaking and my shoulders finally stopped hitching around aborted cries.

When I finally drew silent, Adam almost smiled at me. Almost but not quiet. He let go of my chin and repeated his earlier instructions, gave me a little nudge towards the stairs, reminding me to not make a sound as I went to my room. Shy and oh so very lost, confused and hurting in more ways than one, I had reached for Adam's hand, asked him if he would walk me to my room, tears still wet on my cheeks and fear like a living, breathing thing inside of me. I was only five years old; Adam was thirteen. He was practically an adult in my eyes, even if he was way too thin to be healthy, all elbows and knees and ribs. Now that I think about it, Adam really was an adult, but not for the childish reasons I had first assumed. At the time, he just made me feel safe, even if, previously, he had never talked to me, even if he hadn't really offered any words of solace after finding me crying in a corner, horrified at the red liquid spilling from my mouth. He was a big boy and I stupidly believed he would protect me from anything, just because that's what I believed big kids were supposed to do. Be nice and help the younger ones. Well, in a way, Adam did help me. Just not in the way that I had wanted.

At the foot of the stairs, the red haired boy had stopped and turned to face me, bending his knees to squat again. Looking me directly in the eyes, he told me no. No, he would not walk me to my room. He told me that I would go by myself and obey every other thing he had said to the letter. Feeling on the edge of tears again, I had asked why. Pleaded. Whined. Begged. But Adam wasn't moved. There had been nothing behind his wide hazel eyes. Not annoyance. Not pity. Not anything. When my last whine had trailed off, Adam had said that he had chores to do. He had to mow the lawn and take out the trash and he was already behind because of me. He had things to do and couldn't waste any more time. His words had stung but before my sloshing eyes could spill over again, Adam said something I will never forget.

"_Listen kiddo. This isn't like those cartoons you like or some movie. Mommy and Daddy aren't here to make it all better. And nobody's going to stop and coddle you when you cry ok?" _Adam spoke without tone or heat; he was just telling me the facts. Still too naïve, too innocent, I had reached for Adam's hand again, wanting someone to hold me, wanting to ignore what he was saying. He pulled out of my reach before I could even touch him. I started to cry again, silently this time: big fat tears rolling down my cheeks with my mouth pressed firmly shut. I thought maybe Adam would feel bad, hug me or something, because that's what my Mama used to do: hold me tight and hum wordlessly into my ear. But Adam did nothing. He just stared at me while I cried and said, "_Them's the breaks. And crying isn't going do anything. So stiffen that upper lip and pick yourself up off the floor every time you get knocked down cuz the world isn't going to stop for you. The world doesn't care about you. It'll just keep chugging along if you're happy, crying, or hurt. The world never stops moving, not for anything, and neither should you. Remember that kiddo. Remember that and maybe you just might make it."_

Adam wasn't heartless. He wasn't cruel. He hadn't said those things to me to be malicious or vindictive. He said them to give me a chance, a fighting chance, some advice for the long years ahead. Ironically, it was the only advice he gave me. Three weeks after that, he took a tumble down the stairs. People came to the house. Men and women in uniforms; flashing lights and loud sirens. They took Adam away. To this day, I don't know what happened to him; I don't know if he lived or died, if the fall from the second floor landing was intentional or accidental, self inflicted or not. I never saw him after that day. All I know is that when they took Adam out of the house, he was strapped down onto a long stretcher. And he wasn't moving. I was five years old and scared out of my mind, confused and oh so very lost, but all I can remember thinking was that Adam wasn't moving and he had told me to never do that.

So, I didn't. From that day on, I never stopped moving. Not when I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing Adam's blood off the foot of the stairs, tears sliding silently down my cheeks and mixing with the pink tinged suds under my palms. Not when I was pushed down time and time again, the taste of pennies and salt at the back of my throat. Not ever. I remembered what Adam Keene told me, a boy of thirteen with a wild red mane and hazel eyes decades too old and too shadowed for his body. Years before Sensei's advice of _"Finish the tasks laid out before you; finish them and once you are done, then take the time to let the tears flow. But not before Audrey. Never before"; _and more than a decade before the ardent plea of "_You must never, __**ever, **__give up__**. **__No matter the trials, no matter the tribulations, no matter the difficulty, you must endure, you must continue on," _whispered frantically in my ear with the dying sounds of Dalton clamoring in the background; I remember what Adam said.

The world isn't going to stop for me. It doesn't give a _damn _if I'm hurt. If my body is bruised and battered. If my eyes sting with salt and my chest is heavy for reasons other than dented ribs. It's just going to keep chugging along; it's never going to stop moving. And neither am I. There are chores to do and things to get done and I'm not about to waste any time wallowing in self-pity over a few bumps and scrapes, a few angry accusations tossed my way. Nobody else understands this, not a single person. Everyone wants me to sit down and take it easy; they want me to cry and talk it out; they want to wait on me hand and foot and not let me move a single inch.

Well, I can't do that. Not won't but physically _can't. _I know that it isn't exactly healthy, that some wires in my head got crossed years ago, but when I'm hurt, I don't just stop moving. I don't cry or moan and look for attention. I just work all the harder, all the faster. Keep pushing on and on. I never stop moving.

I don't know what ever happened to Adam Keene but…if I were to ever see him again…I'd thank him for picking me up off the floor and giving me just enough support to stand on, giving me just enough foundation to ground and brace myself for the next five years to come, for the life I now have to endure.

I'd thank him from the bottom of my heart.

"_Remember that kiddo. Remember that and maybe you just might make it."_

_#_

It was with a bitter taste in my mouth and something writhing uncomfortably in my chest that I walked away from Daryl. I didn't look back; I didn't hesitate in rounding the side of the van. I walked with my chin held high and my back as straight as I could make it. I walked with dry eyes and a purpose. What that purpose was, I'll never know. I had no destination, no thoughts in my head. I just was walking. Away, away, away.

Amy, god bless her, caught sight of me the instant I was out of the shadow of the van. She was standing a few feet away from the fire pit, like she had stumbled after me a couple steps before coming up short. She was halfway to where Shane and Rick had still been talking but stuck in the little dirt path that wound through camp, stuck in the no man's land of indecisiveness and frustration. I could see in her eyes that she was pissed, that she wanted to scold me for chickening out on telling Shane, and she partially opened her mouth to do so. But I guess she saw something in _my _eyes that being reprimanded wasn't something I was particularly up for because she didn't say a single word as I limped past her. She didn't say a single word as I staggered all the way back to my tent. She didn't even try to follow.

Contrary to what she probably thought, I didn't go back to my tent to wallow or sleep. The second that I ducked through the zippered opening, I was a flurry of motion. I stripped off my T-shirt first, painstakingly and with a lot of breaks in between. After making sure my bandages were still tight and intact, I pulled one of my last clean shirts on: a grey, thick strapped tank top. More revealing than I would have liked, not in the inappropriate sense but in the sense of it showed more of the bruises and scrapes than a regular T-shirt hid. However, it was easier to get into, no arm holes to navigate or become lost in, so I just dealt with the red scrapes and purple bruises lining my arms and shoulders. My face looked worse anyway.

That done, I stepped out of my basketball shorts and pulled on a pair of khaki ones, but not before I cleaned off the blood from my skinned knee. The small gash didn't hurt all that much but it was still bleeding steadily, crimson lines snaking down my shin from when I fell earlier, racing to reach the women and children. I put some pressure on it and smeared a dollop of antiseptic across the torn skin before moving on to find my shoes.

The entire process had to take about half an hour and in that entire time, I didn't think about a single thing. I was on autopilot. Lift arm, shift leg, breathe. In, out, in, out. Nothing but what I was seeing in front of me. I didn't think about Daryl. I didn't think about Merle. Nothing but clothes and bandages and torn skin.

Now, I'm limping out of my tent, hair brushed, shoes on and it's like I'm waking up for the second time. The world comes back to me, murmuring voices, stabbing pain, and words swirling around and around in my head. I stumble and lean against a tree, close my eyes and take a deep breath.

_"Ya left my brother as walker bait! Ya left him to fuckin die!"_

Goddamn Daryl. Never can leave me the hell alone. Maybe this is punishment for not listening to reason when it threatened to cut me ear to ear. Fucking figures.

I'm so tired it isn't even funny. Yesterday I risked my life to bring food and supplies back to camp. Yesterday, I was beaten down to a point where I almost couldn't get back up. Today, we had our first walker in the mountains, a sign of something else I don't want to think about. Today…but I can't stop moving. Because stagnation doesn't change anything. In fact, it just leaves more room and time to think about things that go against productivity. So, no stopping. No Daryl or Merle or Glenn or Atlanta. Just things that I can do and change.

The world isn't going to stop moving for me but damn if this isn't the first time I wished it would.

When I finally reach the RV, the cube van is gone. There's no dust swirling in the air, no gravel spitting off of departing tires. They've been gone for a while. The last image of Daryl I have leaps to the forefront of my mind: snarling eyes, a twisted mouth, rage and desperation in every inch of him. It's a belated realization, I've been loath to notice it before, but Daryl and Merle share a cast of nose, shape of mouth, and their mocking expressions eerily mirror each other if you know what to look for. It's like a sucker punch to the gut and I'm gasping without air, a hot brand twisting in my chest. And all I can think is…I asked for this. Everyone warned me against the Dixons, both Merle _and _Daryl. I was too stubborn to freaking listen. Too stubborn and too caught up in a memory that's long gone and an urge to try and prove myself worthy of Sensei's words. It was idiotic and nobody's fault but mine.

Funnily enough, I think Daryl's words hurt more than his brother's fingers around my neck, his fist against my teeth. I expected nothing better from Merle. But from Daryl…

Shaking my head, I spare the empty spot on the road half a glance before I tear my gaze away and limp towards the gathering of women crowded around the door of the Winnebago. Things I can do. Things I can change. The past is over and I have to keep moving.

Andrea is the first one to see me. There's a basket of clothes at her feet and a bottle of detergent in her hands. She's pulled her hair back into a messy bun and rolled the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows. The smile she casts me is bright but strained.

"Hey Audrey. We were just heading down to the quarry to do some laundry." She nods to the basket on the ground, shakes the soap in her hands. I tilt my head in slight confusion because it feels like yesterday was laundry day but then I remember the piles of dirty clothes in my tent and after some calculations, I realize it must have been a week or just about since the last time we went down to the lake. Time seems really distorted nowadays. Or maybe I'm just losing the ability to track it.

Clearing my throat, I do my best to make my voice resemble my normal pitch, not the painful rasp that now resides in my vocal chords, making me sound like I'm a habitual smoker. "Need some help?" I ask and my voice is scratchy at the very least, the bruises in my neck smarting in retaliation. But I can do some laundry. That's something I can actually do. Not Atlanta. Not a rescue mission. But laundry…that's easy enough. I try not to think of Glenn or walkers or dangerous things.

Andrea is standing under the RV's awning, leaning into the meager shade it offers but even through the shadows I can see something shift in her eyes, a quicksilver flash, and I wait for the rejection, the _oh no we got it why don't you rest, _but, amazingly, it never comes. Instead, Andrea's gaze drops to my feet and drags back up again, clicking onto my face with a thoughtful expression. My cheeks burn with an irrational self-consciousness because I _know _how I must look.

"Sure," she says lightly and I blink at her in shock, not expecting this response, thinking my question would have been nothing but rhetorical. "Do you have any clothes to wash? We're gonna load up Carol's car and—"

"Andrea!"

The two of us turn to see Amy gazing at her sister with nothing short of a scandalized expression. Amy's hair is pulled into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck and there's a light sweat on her brow as she steps out of the RV. Her eyes dance over to meet mine but I avert my gaze back to her sister, not wanting to see the question, the accusation, in her face.

"What?" the older blonde asks with big innocent eyes and I've seen that expression enough times on her sister to know it's nothing but bullshit. Amy frowns and I can see the argument building behind her teeth but Jacqui beats her to it.

"Let the poor girl rest Andrea." I turn to see Jacqui extract herself from where she had been talking to Abby and Rebecca, Simon's wife, and walk over to the three of us. Her tone is light and admonishing but her deep brown eyes say she means business. She walks up to me and lays a hand on my elbow, right above the line where the bandage on my wrist ends. Rubbing in a rhythm that is meant to me soothing, Jacqui gives me a small smile and says, "We got this honey. Why don't you just relax for a little while?"

I can't help the small chuckle that slips past my lips because, really, where have I heard _that _before?

Shifting slightly to take some pressure off my right ankle, my whole body is this machine of accommodations, compromises of pain now, I pat Jacqui's hand and do my best to give her a reassuring smile. It's fake as can be but I hope that the twisting bruises and cuts on my face will mask the fault lines in my smile.

"I'm fine Jacqui," I tell her and when she scoffs I roll my eyes and huff out a short laugh. "Ok, maybe not fine but I'm _functional. _I can do some menial things. Honest."

The older woman narrows her eyes at me skeptically and I hear Amy mutter something petulantly at my back. I can practically hear the wheels in Jacqui's head turning, weighing options, like what she says really matters in the end because whether she likes it or not, I'm heading down to the quarry anyway. I wince at the sudden harsh thought and instantly feel cowed. I don't mean to be antagonistic, especially since I know Jacqui means well, but something in me feels raw and flayed. Before I can find it, shut it up and shut it out, Andrea is speaking again.

"Hey if she wants to help, that means it'll take less time to get it all done. The less time it takes to get done, the faster we can head back up here," she points out. The other women cringe minutely at her implication, at the words she left unsaid.

_The faster we can get back to safety. _

Andrea shrugs and bends down to pick up her clothes. "I say let her come."

Jacqui sighs and drops her hand from my arm. She doesn't look the least bit convinced, still glances at me in this careful way, like I'm fragile and should be put into a glass box until I'm all healed up and one hundred percent fine. But we don't have that luxury anymore; if you can move you need to get up off your ass because sitting back and being coddled isn't the way of the world anymore. I wonder what Jacqui would say to me if I told her that was never the way of _my _world, not for many long years, a goddamn lifetime.

I wonder what they would all say if I imparted on them Adam's wisdom.

Smiling, I turn to Andrea to thank her for vouching for me but she's already gone, walking side by side with Carol toward the latter woman's yellow station wagon. Her younger sister stands in her place with a frown and furrowed brow. Amy stares at me for an immeasurable moment, not saying a word and the pale blue of her eyes is clouded and disapproving. I try to smile at her but quickly drop it when she doesn't reciprocate. I know she wants to talk about what happened with Daryl, why I chickened out on Shane, but I can't answer her. Not now. I just need to keep moving, occupy my mind with other things, and I hope she can understand that.

By the way she sighs and steps around me, I don't think she does.

"I'll help you get your clothes."

I nod in thanks and silently follow her back to my tent but not before thinking that I'm going to grab my katana on the way out. Just in case.

As Amy and I walk past the fire pit, my gaze wanders from the ground to the sky and levels off in between. There are trees and scattered tents, meandering people and a line of mostly useless cars. Unbidden, my eyes click back to that empty spot of road where the cube van used to be and then land on a beaten up blue truck, not very far away. It's a dated number, a Ford or a Chevy because I'm not very good with cars. The blue hood is faded; the white lower half of the door and section around the tire is chipped and dinged. It's an old hunk of metal…and I know that it's Daryl's. Not Merle's. Merle's vehicle is the huge black bike with an embossed _SS _on the side, unsurprisingly, a few feet to the right. (1) No. It's Daryl's. I've seen him tinker with the thing myself, just a passing glance as I walk to and fro across camp, never talking to him because I fucking couldn't at the time, his brother's eyes like knives on my skin. The sight forces a lump to the back of my throat and I snap my gaze away, staring down at my shoes like they are the most interesting items in the world. Amy says something beside me but I don't hear a word. All I can hear are these words in my head, thrumming in my blood, making my head ache.

_"Yer just like every other asshole here! Ya only care bout yer own damn self. Probably were happy to be rid of a Dixon huh? Well ya know what? Fine! Fuck all of y'all! The __second __Merle and I get back, we're gone. See how long ya dumb fucks survive then!"_

For the second time, I can't help but laugh under my breath at those words, even as they cut deep, even as my eyes sting because…Daryl really had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

If Rick hadn't stepped up to the plate…I would have gone back to Atlanta with Daryl. I would have, honest to God. Even if it was just him and me. Even if it meant being along with only the Dixon brothers because Merle was Daryl's brother, his last living family member, and I know what it's like to lose your family. It's happened to me more than once. So I understood Daryl's desperation, his fervor, even if I personally believe Merle Dixon didn't deserve an ounce of the loyalty his brother gave to him. And I wanted to help Daryl; I didn't want to see another family ripped apart. Not when I could do something about it.

And yes Rick went back. Yes, Glen and T-Dog went with him. All three witnesses to what happened in the city that last time we were all there. But…it wasn't the same. Merle hadn't tried to kill them. He beat T-Dog sure, but that was a show of power. He tried to _murder _me, in cold blood, out of hatred.

And still I felt guilty for leaving him to die.

Still…I would have helped to retrieve him.

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><p>The back of the van is hot and dusty. There's a tickle in the back of Daryl's throat and sweat beadin on his brow. Every bump on the road sends him bouncin and his legs tingle with the urge to fall asleep. He's spent damn near an eternity trapped in this stuffy box and he half wonders if he should of just walked to Atlanta cuz <em>damn <em>the chink drives like an old fuckin lady.

He still doesn't know why any of them came with him and he sure as hell didn't want them to: the stupid chink Merle liked to jeer at, the fuckin cop that handcuffed him in the first place and the nigger that dropped the damn key. Daryl tells himself he hates every single one of them and not for the first time wishes that someone had just _told_ him where Merle was and that he had come alone.

_"I'll show you. I was on the trip. I can show you the building where…where Merle's at."_

Daryl grits his teeth and there's a metallic taste in the back of his throat. Like blood and rust and pennies. He's irritated, aggravated, pissed all to hell and it simmers in his bones as he gnaws angrily on the split skin around his nails. No. He hasn't thought about the kid since he got into this stupid van and he ain't about to start now. He's gotta concentrate on Merle and what he's gonna say to him when they finally get on that roof. Maybe he should of brought that bottle of Daniels with him; a peace offering cuz just thinking bout what his brother's gonna say...Daryl really knows he should of come alone. Merle ain't gonna be happy to see any of these assholes.

If…if he's even there.

He balks at the thought but there's no escapin it. So far, Daryl's done his best to ignore that possibility but with every mile that they draw closer to the city, the fact that his brother might not be waitin on that roof begins to loom over him, a crushin weight on his chest. Instead of a pissed off, sunburned, dehydrated cursin son of a bitch, Daryl thinks of findin blood soaked gravel and pieces of flesh, a bared skeleton and shreds of clothes in place of Merle. He thinks of ear shatterin moans and his brother as worse off than dead, a walker, a geek, just another dumb, dead, bastard and Daryl's all alone. The thoughts make him nauseous, make this yawnin pit open up in his chest cuz Merle's an asshole but he can't be dead cuz then Daryl has nothing left. His eyes start to sting again, traitorous, and he lifts his head to find somethin to catch his attention. Anythin to stave off the pressure buildin in his bones.

Across from him, the nigger cradles a pair of bolt cutters to his chest and eyes him warily, gaze not leavin the cross bow in Daryl's lap. A bruise sits high on his cheek and Daryl frowns at the color, the shadowed imprint of knuckles. Somethin nudges at the back of his mind, insistent, flashes of black and blue skin and sharp green eyes, but he shoves the thoughts away and settles on snarlin. Daryl tells himself it's all this nigger's fault and he makes himself believe it.

"He'd better be ok," he spits, referrin to his brother, the man this son of a bitch left to _die_ to save his own worthless ass. He puts as much of a threat as he can into his words and leaves it unveiled. "That's my only word on the matter."

He doesn't know what he'll do if Merle isn't. He can't even think that far. It's this black hole of _what if _and he just keeps thinkin _Merle's fine; he's gotta be _because he can't face the alternative.

A spark of fear lights up in the other man's eyes but when he speaks, his tone is measured, calm, almost exasperated. Daryl wants to deck him. "I _told _you the geeks can't get at him. The only thing that's gonna get through that door is us."

Daryl scowls and shifts the crossbow, feelin a dull satisfaction when the nigger's eyes click from his face to the weapon, another flash of fear in their depths. With some effort he unclenches his jaw and growls, "Yeah well the geeks wouldn't have a damn _chance _to get at him if ya wouldn't have dropped the damn key ya sonva—"

"Hey!" the other man exclaims and out of the corner of his eye, Daryl can see the chink and cop shift in their seats. Daryl ignores them and glares his best at the dark skinned man who's scowlin right back now, no fear in his eyes, only anger. "It was a goddamn accident alright? _You _weren't there! There were hundreds of geeks comin down on us and—"

"So what?" Daryl snaps and tries to ignore the _hundreds of geeks _part of the man's rant. _Merle's fine; he's gotta be_.

"Ya lose the ability to fuckin work your fingers? Ya left my brother for _dead _just cuz ya were too _stupid _to hold a key!"

"You're lucky we're even going back for that asshole! We should just leave him to rot!"

"_T-Dog_," the chink suddenly whines in warnin from the front seat but Daryl doesn't let him say another word. Barin his teeth, his shifts in his seat and flashes the knife at his hip. He ain't above stabbing this man. Not now. He better shut his mouth.

But the nigger, _T-Dog—_and what kind of damn name is _that?—_just sneers in response to the movement. The expression is ugly and cruel and Daryl's seen it on too many people to count over the years, this look that shows him that people think he's less than dirt, less than shit. He hates that goddamn look.

"What?" T-Dog asks mockingly, juttin his chin at Daryl. "You gonna beat my ass too? Tch. You're no better than your meth head brother."

Anger burns through Daryl's veins at the dig on Merle but there's confusion there too and somethin like a realization bloomin in the back of his mind. It's a welter of thoughts and emotions in his head and they all start to blend into one big headache.

"What the hell ya talkin bout?"

The other man snorts in disgust and turns his face, gesturin at the bruise sittin high on his cheek. Daryl can't keep his eyes from tracin the individual curve of one, two, three, knuckles stamped onto dark skin. "You think I did this to myself?" T-Dog continues. He faces Daryl again and there's this dark hate in his eyes as they lock gazes. "You think _Audrey _just fell down a couple of stairs and got all fucked up?"

The words reverberate in Daryl's head and it's like God's kicked his in the fuckin teeth.

"W…what?"

The anger is startled right out of Daryl, sudden and abrupt, leavin him feelin hollowed out and dry. He blinks and stares at the man across from him, tries to find the lie in the minute details of his face, cuz Daryl's been lied to enough to know when it's happenin, but all he sees is naked honesty and a cruel sneering. Confusion threads through him and all he can see in his mind's eye are bandaged arms and a busted eye and a split that ran right down the center of a lower lip.

T-Dog rolls his eyes. "Come on man. I know you can't be _that _stupid."

"Speak damn clearly or I swear to God—"

"I can't be much clearer Dixon." T-Dog screws up his face and spits to the side, like he's disgusted with how the words taste in his mouth. "Your crazy, cracker ass brother nearly killed us _all _and when we tried to stop him, he beat the crap out of us. Decked me in the face a good dozen times; pistol whipped me, kicked me in the ribs and that was all before he set in on Audrey."

There it was, all out in the open and clear as freakin day.

"_And that was all before he set in on Audrey." _

Like a damn light bulb goin off, it all makes sense now and Daryl realizes that's the thing that's been writhin at the back of his mind; this thought, this suspicion, this knowledge, ever since she called out his name. It's the one thing he refused to admit, even to himself, cuz if he really thought about it, what else was gonna hurt the kid 'sides his brother? What else, _who _else, was gonna make her look like _**that?**_

Suddenly, without tryin, without _wantin _to, Daryl's seein her all over again, standin before him, barefoot and in a shirt three sizes too damn big on her, her face ten kinds of fucked up, bandages on her arm, her leg which she can't put weight on, hiked up behind her like a damn flamingo, and hidden beneath the fabric of her shirt, wound tight for god knows what kinda injuries. He sees the pain in every inch of her, the barely concealed flinches that he hadn't noticed before, too blinded by anger and rage and desperation to save his brother. He sees the smile she tried to give him and the guilt in her bottle glass green eyes, sincere when he thought she was as fake as can be.

Above all else, he hears her words as if she's right there next to him in the van.

_"You don't know fucking __anything __Daryl."_

"_You have no idea." _

"_You wouldn't even begin to understand…"_

Daryl hadn't known what she was talkin bout; he hadn't gave a shit. All he was focused on was his brother and the feelin akin to betrayal wound tight in his chest. He told the kid to shut up; he told the kid to fuck off. He screamed and cursed at her, almost spat in her face as he accused her of all this shit and all the while…Merle's the one that did that to her. Merle's the one that battered her skin and bruised her muscles and by the way she moved, tentative and unsure, like an eighty year old woman afraid of fallin, he's also the one that might of broken her bones. And the worst thing about it? Worse than the kid just takin everythin Daryl said and not sayin a word; worse than Daryl ignorin what was right in front of him, etched into Audrey's goddamn skin?

The worst of it was…Daryl's not even that surprised. He knew his brother; knew him better than anyone left livin, even before the end of the world. Merle was the meanest asshole he ever met. His first stint in juvie was when he was only twelve. He was in and out for the rest of his youth and each time he went back, it was for somethin worse. Then he moved on to prison and hard core drugs and the bastard in Merle was only exacerbated until there were times when Daryl could swear he _**hated **_his older brother. Explodin like this was nothin new for Merle; even with a woman. In fact, the most surprisin thing was how long it took Merle to reach his boilin point. Daryl had been on eggshells since they first arrived in camp, waitin for Merle to go of like a hastily loaded gun. But Merle's been amazinly calm for the most part, for bein him. Even when Daryl decked him he was only bein his normal, antagonistic son of a bitch self. Daryl doesn't understand how Merle went from that to nuclear, went from drinkin with him to beatin…beatin Audrey like tha—

And then he abruptly remembers the stretch of his brother's grin and the gravel rumble of his laugh, the taste of whiskey and sharp unease on the back of Daryl's tongue.

_"Knew I taught ya to be smart baby bro."_

It's like a punch to the gut when Daryl remembers that gleam in Merle's eye, that calculatin expression that Daryl had written off as imagination, the haze of liquor, a slant of light. He hadn't understood what Merle meant then but hindsight is fuckin 20/20 and Daryl realizes his brother hadn't been calm all this time. He had just been bidin his time; waitin for an openin. And he got it in the form of Daryl stalkin off into the woods, fit to be tied, and a trip to the city where Walsh hadn't been there to stop him, cop's authority and loaded gun. Daryl tastes bile in the back of his throat and when he opens his mouth his voice is no more than a raspy drawl.

"What he do?"

T-Dog glares at him warily, eyes narrowed into slits and lips a firm, thin line. Daryl gnashes his teeth and suddenly feels a hot pain, a shootin flare in the knuckles of his right hand, clenched tight as he can manage round the handle of his crossbow. The swollen joint of his middle finger protests the abusin grip but he ignores the deep ache.

"Merle," he repeats from behind a workin jaw. "What did he do?"

Scowlin, the other man shifts the bolt cutters in his lap and leans forward. "I just told you—"

"To the _kid! _You ain't look as bad as she does! What he do to _her!"_

He doesn't give two shits bout the nigger. The asshole can still walk and besides a couple of bruises on his face, he ain't worse for wear. But the kid…that motherfuckin _kid. _Daryl had said he was done with her, swore it cuz he doesn't need the trouble of all those other bastards lookin at him like he's shit or worse; cuz he doesn't need the tension between him and Merle; cuz he convinced himself it was partially her fault his brother was trapped in the city, maybe dead. Now though…his skin feels tight and head bout to explode cuz every damn smile the kid had sent him is replayin in his mind and he remembers the way she came to _him _when they were runnin out of food, on the brink of starvation, the way she sat in the dirt and whispered that burden to him and then looked up with wide, trustin eyes. Above all else, he remembers the way she defended him, against Walsh, against that bitch he sleeps with, against the whole of fuckin camp…and he feels like crap. He shouldn't feel like that. She was just some stupid kid he found in the woods, just another loud-mouthed city dweller. He shouldn't give a damn. He tells himself he doesn't, that he just wants to know the damage Merle caused so he can clean it up, like he always does. He tells himself that and he tries to believe it.

There's too much silence and the nigger won't answer, but he doesn't need to cuz Daryl gets his answer either way.

"He tried to kill her."

Daryl snaps his gaze to the side but the chink won't look at him. His eyes are glued to the road in front of him but Daryl can see the white knuckled grip he has on the steering wheel and he can see the tick in his jaw.

"Come again?" Daryl asks. He's well aware his voice is even worse now. But did he hear wrong? Cuz Merle was an asshole, through and through, but he ain't a murderer.

At least…Daryl thinks he ain't.

The chink exhales shakily and his shoulders go rigid with tension. "We were almost done with the scavenge when Rick started shooting a few blocks over. He had almost walked into a horde and basically emptied a whole clip into the crowd. I managed to pull him into our building but it was too late. The geeks were already surroundin the building."

"The hell does that have to do with—?"

"Let the man finish," T-Dog barks. Daryl cuts him a glare but purses his lips and shuts up.

Unperturbed, Chinaman keeps goin. "That's when Merle started shooting. He was on the roof, look out position. The noise was deafening so we raced up the stairs and tried to get him to stop. It was only making matters worse you know? Bringing more walkers toward us. Anyway, Merle laughed at first but then…then he got violent." Chinaman clears his throat and adjusts the brim of his cap. For a moment the van is silent; all Daryl can hear is the gravel underneath the tires and the way Grimes shifts uncomfortably in his chair. When the chink picks up his story again, there's an edge to his voice even though it has become two octaves quieter.

"T-Dog's the first one he went after. Cracked him in the face with the rifle. He got Rick next. It was like Merle was unstoppable." Daryl knows what Chinaman means. His brother was tough on any given day but if he was high, like Daryl assumes he was, he takes on a whole new ferociousness that's frightenin. "That's when Audrey stepped up. She rushed Merle, knocked the gun out of his hands, pushed him back a few feet. She didn't use her sword though," he says, like he's tryin to defend her or some shit. Daryl doesn't understand but he keeps listenin. "She just tried to talk to him; she tried to get him to back down but…he wouldn't listen." The chink lapses into silence again and Daryl uses it to think bout what he's been told.

So Merle did somethin stupid and reckless and caused a bunch of shit? Sounds like him. Beatin heads in? Definitely sounds like him. But Daryl knows that can't be the end of the story. Once he gets goin, Merle doesn't stop for nothin. Not until the other guy is unconscious and bleedin or the cops show up. Daryl feels sick when he wonders which one happened first in Atlanta.

In the front of the truck, Grimes reaches out and lays a hand on Chinaman's shoulder but the younger man shrugs him off. All Daryl can see of his face is a slim profile at an awkward angle but the skin he _can_ see is pale and taunt and the knob of his Adam's bobs sharply.

"He blindsided her," he starts up again and Daryl gets a knot in his stomach. "Threw gravel in her face while she was trying to reason with him. She couldn't see anything and while she was incapacitated…Merle decked her. The punch only threw her slightly off balance and Audrey tried to get away before he could land another hit but Merle was smart. He…he kicked her in the ankle, hard enough that we could hear the impact ten feet away. Audrey had twisted it earlier in the day, nothing too serious but enough to slow her down, provide a weak spot I guess. She went down hard but kept trying to fight. Merle stomped on her wrist when she went for her tanto, punched her in the face again, kicked her in the ribs. She nearly passed out."

Everythin Chinaman is sayin Daryl can picture crystal clear in his head. Every punch and kick; he can even imagine the blood on the kid's lip when Merle's fist split it down the middle. It makes him feel sick and pissed off cuz all he can think bout is Lilah Dixon crouched on the floor of the bathroom, nursin black eyes and purple bruises while her husband knocked back another beer and stumbled into his old recliner to pass out. Ya would think Merle would know better but Daryl's always known his brother's more like their father than either of them would ever admit.

The thought suddenly makes him so angry he's spittin out words he hasn't even processed.

"And what? The rest of ya just stood back and watched?" he snarls. He thinks about the way the kid couldn't walk on her right foot properly, the way she didn't even use her right hand. Bones could be broken in both and these sons of bitches did nothin? Somethin in Daryl's head points out how he's not angry bout what they did to Merle now but bout what _Merle _did to Audrey. The same somethin points out that feelin this way is a betrayal to Merle but Daryl snarls at the thought cuz if what Chinaman says is true—and what else can it be but the truth with the kid all fucked up?—then Merle's done this shit to himself again, made another bed he has to lie in. Daryl still doesn't think they should have left his brother to die…but…but he'll be havin some words for Merle when they reach the goddamn city. He swears it.

"Oh screw you Dixon," T-Dog spits at him and Daryl whirls on him with a scowl. "Don't act like you care what your fucked up brother did to her! Have enough balls to at least be honest and admit you don't give a shit instead of fakin it!"

"_Shut the fuck up and don' act like yer sorry when I know ya fuckin ain't."_

Daryl's breathin is sharp and irregular and he doesn't know what the pressure in his head is, the ache in his chest, he can't name the burnin in his veins or the way he's twitchin like he's been electrocuted, but he doesn't like it one damn bit. He tries to shove it all away but no matter how hard he tries, it doesn't work. Nothin works. And it just makes him angrier and angrier cuz what the hell is this _feelin _in every inch of him and—

"Wait T-Dog. Just…just let me finish. He wants to know."

The nigger doesn't look very inclined to listen to Chinaman, he's still glowerin hotly at Daryl to which the hunter bares his teeth in kind, but the kid drivin just starts talkin again and Daryl forces himself to look at the chink, to listen to what he's sayin cuz…he needs to know. All of it. Everything. Every fucked up thing Merle had done so Daryl can beat him twice as bad for being an idiotic son of a bitch.

Chinaman takes a deep breath and cuts a glance at Daryl out of the corner of his eye. The two men lock gazes for only a second before the younger man turns away but Daryl saw what was in his eye and it makes him inhale sharply and hold it, bracin himself.

It's haltin when the chink says, "We _tried _to help. T-Dog yanked Merle off of her but he wasn't exactly willing to listen then either. No matter how one of us went at him, Merle was already two steps ahead and shoving us back. It was only when he pulled the gun that we froze."

"Gun?" Daryl hears himself ask and Chinaman nods, his breathin shallow.

"Yeah some handgun he had stowed God knows where. Started waving it around. Had it in all our faces. Audrey…I tried to keep her down, away from Merle, but she wouldn't have it. She snuck up behind him and pulled her sword, I think just to scare him, get him to _stop,_ but he turned at the last minute and had the gun in _her _face before we could blink. Audrey still tried to reason with him but he ignored her, punched her in the face again, broke her nose. She set it herself though, later. I couldn't freaking believe it. She just snapped it into place but…um never mind. Where was I?"

Daryl thinks back to the tape sittin high on the bridge of the kid's face and has to bite his tongue at the thought of her wrappin those slim fingers of hers round broken cartilage and jerkin it back into place. Daryl's done it before and he knows how much it fuckin hurts.

"Oh yeah," the chink says, answerin his own question. "Right. Uh…the punch knocked Audrey against the edge of the roof. I…I tried to go to her but Merle…he pointed a gun at me. I couldn't move. He went to her instead and before she could see straight again, he had his hand around her throat and had hauled her off the floor."

That explains the unusual spots on the kid's neck, Daryl thinks. He wonders at how tight his brother must of have clenched his hand to leave such clear impressions, to have wrecked Audrey's voice so much. Daryl distantly imagines that he'd be able to see Merle's fuckin fingerprints if he looked hard enough.

"Then what?" Daryl needs to know and he can't take Chinaman's pauses anymore, his goddamn silence. Daryl wants him to spit it all out, to just let him fuckin _hear it. _

The other man must realize how Daryl feels cuz he stutters the rest out in a frantic breath. He sounds scared and angry, like he's right there seein it all over again. "Merle said somethin to her. I…none of us could hear what. And then…then he started to push her over the edge. We were ten stories up. There was no way…if she fell…even without the walkers…" he trails off, shakes his head. He starts again a moment later but there's enough emotion in his voice to warp his words. "He had her leg pinned and his hand was still around her throat and she was almost unconscious but…I don't know what happened. One second I'm sure she's going to go over and the next, she's shoved Merle back. The momentum almost sent her off the roof anyway but I grabbed her at the last second. And Rick got Merle before he could shoot us. Hooked him to a piece of metal and well…I guess you can figure out the rest."

Daryl could. Then the walkers got in and the rest of them somehow got out but forgot good ole Merle Dixon up on the roof. Before, the knowledge had sent him into a rage. They left his brother to die. They left him as walker bait. The bastards tried to kill his last of goddamn kin.

But now…Daryl can see why and a part of him doesn't blame them anymore. It's like a part of him, the part that's always been loyal to his brother—cuz that's what ya did with family, ya stood by them no matter what they do—breaks cuz…Merle didn't just cause some shit. He almost killed people, directly, with his own hands.

He…he almost killed the kid.

Daryl told himself that he didn't want nothin to do with her; that he didn't want to be her friend of anythin else. But the stupid…she never stopped tryin. Not when he snapped at her those first few days in camp; not when he acted like as ass; when that weasel almost tore her eyes out; when he listened to her defend him and then spat in her face. Not even when his own brother tried to goddamn _murder _her. She kept tryin to be his friend through all that shit and Daryl doesn't understand her at all.

But what he does understand, what he does know, what he's tried to ignore but no longer can, is that she's the first person in a long time that's looked at him with anythin but disdain and condescendin. She's the first person to actually thank him and believe he was useful and, not only that, that he was worthy enough to be a friend. She's the first damn person that's just…tried and she even tried to save his fuckin brother, her would be murderer, and Daryl only spat in her face again.

Somethin nasty in his head whispers that maybe all these assholes are right to look at him like they do. Like trash. Like dirt. Like shit. He tries to ignore it, he really damn does, but it's hard when he can feel that protein bar the kid gave him pressed against his thigh in his pocket, when he remembers the look in her eye when he screamed at her, the hurt clear as day in bottle green orbs.

It's fuckin hard as hell when he can hear her words right at his ear and know she somehow _meant _them.

_"I hope you find your brother Daryl."_

But when the chink eventually slows the car to a stop, says, "We walk from here," Daryl can't help but think, distantly, at the back of his mind in the most abstract of ways, that maybe he really doesn't want to.

* * *

><p>To say the ride down to the lake is excruciating is an understatement. And that doesn't even include the physical pain I was in.<p>

Once Amy and I had gotten all my laundry together, and I had painstakingly strapped on my katana again, people started to load up. I don't know why but we were using Carol's wagon to get to the quarry which meant that her oh so charming son of a bitch husband was along for the ride as well. When Jacqui, Andrea, and Amy had slid into the back seat of the station wagon and I had seen there was no room left, a small part of me was relieved because ever since the day that I realized what Ed truly was, I avoided him like bubonic plague. In the last few weeks, I don't think I've been within a hundred yards of the bastard. Being stuck in a fucking car with him? Yeah…don't think that would have gone over well.

So feeling slightly guilty, I was about to resign myself to doing other chores around camp, washing dishes from the quick lunch we had or foraging for some nuts, berries, mushrooms—the deer that Daryl caught had been hauled off to the side and even though some people kept sparing glances at it, looking at me, I wouldn't even peek in it's direction—when Shane came up and told me he was taking Carl down to the quarry to catch some frogs and if I needed a ride, I could come.

If I was any kind of smart, I would of said no. I _should _of said no. But, I didn't. Instead, I thanked him and took him up on his offer and hauled myself into his Jeep, Carl climbing into the back among nets and buckets and what I assumed were other frog catching items.

From camp to lake, it's only a five-minute ride. But it was the longest five minutes of my freaking life. I swear Shane's eyes were on me longer than they were on the road. And the Jeep might be an open vehicle but I felt almost claustrophobic with the way he stared at me, the oppressive weight of unsaid words between us. I knew Shane wanted to know more about Atlanta; I knew that he knew I was hiding something. But he wasn't about to ask, not in front of Carl, and I wasn't about to tell. Not even with Amy's semi-threat still cycling in my head. So we both stayed silent; awkwardly, uncomfortably silent. Add to that fact that every bump in the dirt road had me hissing in pain, I was considering walking back up to camp when the laundry was all done.

Thankfully, Shane and Carl split off from the rest of us once we reached the water's edge, sliding off to the left near a small outcropping of rocks while the rest of us started to spread out the laundry supplies. Or well, as everyone else did. Amy sat me down on a crate the moment there was one unpacked and every time I tried to move or help, she was pushing me back down with a frown. I think she even snapped at me once, like I was a dog. I rolled my eyes at her but complied.

Now I'm sitting next to Carol, shin deep in water with buckets in front of each of us. My right leg is propped up in front of me on another crate so as not to get wet and I'm bent over at an awkward, somewhat painful angle, but I keep my mouth shut as the two of us wash clothes. To the right, in the corner of my eye, my usual boulder juts out into the water, solid and reassuringly there as always. Now, the sight makes knots twist in my stomach and the acidic taste of bile to burn on the back of my tongue.

There's a clatter of gravel behind me and suddenly, Amy plops down on my right, another load of clothes in her hands. She huffs quietly and dumps the heap of fabric into the bucket between my knees. Sudsy water slops over the sides and splashes up into my face.

"Amy!" I cry out in protest. Soap stings my eyes and when I whip around to glare at her, tears blur her face. "The hell?"

The blonde shrugs and turns to her own bucket but not before I catch the small smile on her lips or the glint in her eye. I grumble at her and try to seem angry but the effect is ruined by the grin threatening to break across my face. I guess we're ok again.

"Jerk," I mutter, leaning over to nudge her with my shoulder. She snorts but doesn't reply and we fall into a compatible silence.

I'm no novice at washing clothes but usually there's some machinery involved. At least in this century. Scrubbing clothes on a washboard—and where did someone find these anyway?—makes things a little difficult. Subtract the use of one arm and the task goes from difficult to headache inducing. For every item of fabric I wash, I have to use my left hand to scrub the article against the washboard and since my right hand is out of commission, I have to bend over even farther to get my elbow to pin the washboard to the side of the bucket. My ribs scream in protest and more than once I hold my breath so as not to make a sound but I've gotten a good portion of my own clothes washed, and some others, so I say I'm doing a pretty good damn job.

"Damn Audrey," Andrea suddenly laughs. I look up to see her standing on the other side of Amy, a teasing glint in her eye. "Leave some for the rest of us huh? Or you'll make us look bad."

I roll my eyes at her but feel a slight flush crawl up my neck. "Please," I snort back. "Carol's done like three times as much as I have and she hasn't even broken a sweat. _Amy _on the other hand…" I cluck my tongue and shake my head slightly. "Well…"

The younger blonde squawks indignantly and turns to me with a scandalized expression. I start grinning like an idiot and can't help but laugh, even with the slight pain it causes, when she flicks soap off her fingers at me.

"I'm helping," Amy whines petulantly and her sister nods with a mock serious expression.

"Uh huh. Sure you are Ames. It shows in the three shirts you've washed."

Amy blushes red and grumbles something along the lines of "hate all of you" and "shut up". Andrea and I share a smile over her head before we set back to work again. If Amy suddenly picks up the pace between us, scrubbing furiously on her washboard and handing shirt after shirt to Jacqui for drying well…none of us say anything.

A few minutes pass in calm silence before a sudden splash draws our attention, followed by laughter and cajoling shouts. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I look up to see Shane splashing around in the shallows, soaked from head to toe, shoving water at Carl as he sang something about "catch them frogs!" The boy laughs at his antics, grinning from ear to ear, a thin net in his hands digging around in the water. Beside me, Carol and Amy chuckle at the spectacle and I can't help but do the same.

"I'm beginning to question the division of labor here," Jacqui suddenly says from behind us. I glance over my shoulder to see her frowning at Shane, who's still making a show of himself in the water. Amy clicks her tongue at my right and I see her toss back her head to address the other woman.

"Oh come on Jacqui. They're just having a bit of fun."

Jacqui purses her lips and remains quiet. I can still see the disapproving light in her eyes though and I get up to hand her an armful of clothes, wrung out but still damp. She blinks at my approach, albeit slow and stumbling, but I smile at her around the twinge in my side and leg. "Shane's just trying to keep Carl occupied. You know, keep his mind off of Rick in the city and that…that walker this morning." Flinching at the reminder, Jacqui sighs and accepts the clothes from me.

"I know honey. I know," she says. Turning away from me, she lays out the shirts along the edge of the small boat that's beached along the shore. "Just seems a bit unfair is all I'm saying."

"Preaching to the choir," I laugh. "But I don't think Shane would be of much help anyway." Pointedly, I look over at where the older man is waist deep in the lake, the metal bucket on his head like some kind of helmet as he playfully grapples with Carl over the fishing net. Jacqui follows my gaze and rolls her eyes again. I grin and walk back with her to the water's edge, slowly easing myself back down to sit on the crate I had vacated.

"All I'm wondering is why the women got stuck with the Hattie McDaniel work?" Jacqui continues as she goes about sorting out clothes, dirty and clean, handing the former to us and gathering the latter to her.

Amy snorts beside me and a smirk pulls at her lips. "The world ended. Didn't you get the memo?"

I jostle her shoulder again but she just laughs and pushes me back. I turn to say something to Jacqui but Carol catches my eye. She's looking back over her shoulder, where _Ed _stands lounging against the car, a pinched look to her features and when she speaks, it's quiet and reserved. "That's just the way it is."

Frowning, Jacqui shakes her head but says nothing and I have to bite my tongue and duck my head so I don't either. Things I can do. Things I can change. The list seems to be shrinking nowadays and it's hard to keep moving if I have nothing to do.

A few minutes pass in which there's only the scrub of the washboard and the splash of water to break the silence. Shane and Carl have quieted down and when I sneak a glance at them, Carl has his hands cupped in front of him and Shane's poking at something in his palms. The young boy looks awed and happy, a smile so big on his face I swear I can see every tooth in his head. A warmth blooms in my chest and for a moment, just a moment, the hole that Daryl punched through me is filled up and soothed over and I can breathe easy for the first time in over an hour.

Carol suddenly sighs next to me. She doesn't stop washing but her pace slows down, loses some intensity. "I do miss my Maytag," she says. I blink at her abrupt statement, confused as to what she's getting at, but Andrea seems to get it because she picks up the conversation with ease.

"I miss my Benz," she says, absentmindedly scrubbing a brush over a pair of jeans draped across her knees. "My sat nav. Dinner in four inch heels and a nice wine."

I can't help the short huff of disbelief that falls out of my mouth. Amy had said her sister was a lawyer before; civil though, not criminal. Either way, that means Andrea wasn't exactly wanting for anything. A woman of privilege.

"My computer," Amy laments. Her voice draws out into a long whine, her lips curved into a pout. "And texting."

And, not surprisingly, so was her sister.

The short huff from before turns into a full on chuckle. Amy turns to me with a bemused smile. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

She rolls her eyes and snaps a wet shirt at me. The sting of the wet fabric makes a small welt appear on my upper arm. "Liar. Come on. What about you Dree? What do you miss?"

Four pairs of eyes turn to me and I'm the center of attention once more. I wrinkle my nose at the heat in my cheeks and duck my head with a shrug. "I don't know," I mumble. It's a lie, a big one, because I know the exact answer to that question and it rattles behind my teeth, caught in my throat. "A lot of things I guess."

"Like what?" Amy asks. Always the persistent one.

I know I'm not going to get out of this gossip circle and it's going to take too much energy to say no to Amy and frankly, I just don't have the will to fight her. So, with a sigh, I say the first thing that comes to my mind. "Books, for one. Libraries and bookstores. Just to sit down somewhere quiet and read."

Amy blinks at me. "Books," she repeats slowly. I nod and she immediately shakes her head with a sigh. "Why am I not surprised? You were one of those nerdy kids weren't you Dree? Only a nerd would miss books at the end of the world," she teases. I shrug and smile and let her believe what she wants. I'll let her believe I mourn the loss of paper and ink and worlds trapped between the covers of books but what I won't say, what I'll keep to myself because this is meant to be a light conversation, teasing and joking, is that I'd burn every book in the world just to see my family again. Just to hear Manny laugh and feel Irina tug at my leg, looking up with big blue eyes and pressing a bedtime story into my hands with a question in her face. Just to see my mother smile and Sensei open the door for me with a warm shake of his head because I'm late yet again. Just to have Mathias, Annie Marie, and Kaleigh close again and know that they are breathing.

The thought of them, the things I truly miss, makes me frown and a dull throb pulses in my chest. I'm so caught up in breathing through the pain, through the memories, that I almost miss Andrea's next statement.

"I miss my vibrator."

My hand skids down the washboard and I land elbow deep in water with surprise. Fire crawls up my cheeks as Jacqui makes a teasing, humming noise, and the rest of the women begin to chuckle. Amy cries out something scolding but I don't hear it because Carol suddenly adds her two cents in beside me.

"Me too," she almost whispers and then everyone else explodes into laughter. Except for me. I'm too busy trying not to swallow my tongue or burst into flames.

It's not that I'm completely innocent or naïve or…whatever. I mean…I know about things. I had a few boyfriends before. Emphasis on a _few _as in…about three. So I know. Enough. Still I um…I wasn't expecting this to turn into a sexual history discussion. And as embarrassment burns through me I can only _pray _that Amy doesn't rope me into this conversation as well because I'm not going to have exactly a lot to offer.

Thankfully, everyone is still cackling over Carol's admission so I'm out of the line of fire for now. The older woman is pink in the cheeks but there's a smile on her face as she nonchalantly keeps washing and I can't stop the grin that threatens to pull at my own lips. She doesn't smile a lot so it's good to see her let loose a little. Jacqui must think so too because she leans over, still bent over with laughter, and shoves Carol good naturedly, making the other woman chuckle. Amy catches my eye over the two laughing women. Her face is flushed with emotion and there's a glint in her pale blue orbs. A glint I know too well. Doing my best to scowl at her, I shake my head and will her to be silent but that mischievous look has taken over her whole face now and she opens her mouth to ask the question—

"What's so funny?"

...that's not Amy's voice.

Craning to look over my shoulder, I see Ed strolling towards the bank, scowl on his lips and smoke curling out from behind his teeth. His irritated gaze sweeps over the five of us and suddenly lands on me. All laughter bleeds out of me and the smile drops of my face. I hold his gaze for only an instant before I turn back around and blindly grab for another shirt to start scrubbing.

"Just swapping war stories, Ed," Andrea says in response to his question. I can tell she is trying to keep her tone light and airy but an edge has crept into her words and I can also sense the disdain she holds for the man. Good. Seems I'm not the only one.

From behind us, I still hear the crunch of gravel, slow measured steps approaching us. There's a sudden hint of smoke in the air and I hear Ed take a deep drag off of his latest cigarette before the butt suddenly sails past my ear and drops with a sizzle into the water lapping at my shins. Carol flinches to my left and I have to grit my teeth and hold my breath in order not to say anything. God I want to. I so fucking want to but I remember Carol's ardent plea from before to just leave it alone and while every fiber in me balks at the idea, I like Carol enough to respect her wishes. For now.

Andrea, on the other hand, does not seem so inclined. "Problem, Ed?" she asks after a few tense moments of silence. The man is standing only a few feet behind us and his proximity makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, sets my bones shifting beneath my skin.

"Nothin that concerns you," he snaps back at her and now I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath to control the cresting irritation building inside of me. "And you ought to focus on your work," he suddenly says. By the way that Carol flinches, we both know he's talking to her. "This ain't no comedy club."

Somebody huffs angrily to my right and I can't tell if it's Amy or Andrea. I'm thinking the latter though. Honestly, I'm really starting to like the older blonde. She doesn't like to take shit from assholes either.

Ed is still standing behind us and he gives no indication of leaving any time soon. We have all fallen silent and where it had once been compatible and peaceful, it's now tense and uncomfortable, like we're waiting for the other shoe to drop. I shift ever so slightly in my seat and the brush of the katana along my spine is a reassuring weight, the clench of the tanto's belt on my hip familiar as breathing. It puts me somewhat at ease even as I listen to Ed light up behind me.

A few minutes later I see a sudden flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and I turn to investigate. Lori strides purposefully along the shore towards where Carl and Shane are sitting on some rocks and, by the set of her shoulders, the march of her feet, I can tell she is anything but happy. My brow furrows in confusion at the sight and I unconsciously stop washing. I watch as she reaches the two males and shares a quick few words before Carl is suddenly getting up and trudging away from Shane, a combination of a pout and a scowl on his face. Lori turns to follow him but I see Shane call out to her, get up to follow, and the look on her face, even from this distance, is livid. She whirls on Shane and the two of them start to argue. It looks heated and angry, at least on Lori's part, even if I can't hear what they are saying. Carl marches away from the two of them, oblivious, and I thank whoever is listening out there for small mercies when Lori suddenly gets up in Shane's face and slaps him. The former cop just takes it and doesn't say a word when Lori spins around and stalks after her son; he just stares after her with this expression that looks equal parts pissed and heartbroken.

I have to say, even after the animosity and butting heads between Shane and I, I feel sorry for him. I think about the way he looks at Carl, the way he and Lori acted around each other before, and it would take a blind, deaf, and dumb person to not see that he cared tremendously about the two of them. I know Shane is happy that Rick is back, I had seen the two embrace yesterday, tears in both their eyes, but perhaps it's just a little bit more complicated than that.

But isn't that the fact of life.

Quietly, I watch as Lori wraps an arm around Carl and steers him towards the road that leads back up to camp. The boy looks upset and he shrugs away from his mother, opting to march a few feet in front of her instead. The action seems to upset Lori, gives her pause, but she doesn't say anything and the two of them start the trek up the long gravel road. When i lose sight of them, my eyes flicker back to find Shane slowly picking up the buckets and nets he and Carl had been using and I can't help but remember the way he tried so hard to make Carl laugh, make him smile. I really do feel sorry for him.

However, I don't have anymore time to dwell on Shane because Andrea suddenly growls, honest to God _growls, _to my right and then she's standing with a huff and walking barefoot across the pebbles of the shore, right to where Ed is lighting up yet another cigarette. Her expression is pissed and fed up and even though I think to myself that I'm _really _starting to like Andrea, I can't help but think that _thud _that's resounding in my head is the echo of the other shoe dropping.

"Ed, tell you what," she starts off, sauntering up to the other man. Amy shifts uncomfortably next to me and when I spare her a glance, her face is worried and scared. "If you don't like how your laundry is done, you are welcome to pitch in and do it yourself," Andrea finishes with a flourish, tossing Ed's shirt at him with a snap of her wrist. A smirk is just starting to form on my lips when I see Ed scowl and throw the shirt right back at Andrea. The fabric makes a wet slapping noise as it collides with her face. The retaliation sends an energy crackling through the air and Amy is suddenly on her feet, shifting anxiously in the water. I find myself not all that far behind, balancing precariously on one leg as I watch Andrea and Ed square off.

"Ain't my job missy," Ed spits at her and Amy can tell just as well as I can that Andrea is not about to take that shit. The younger blonde scrambles from my side and tries to grab her sister.

"Andrea, don't!"

The other woman shrugs her off and ignores her words and there's this burning in my blood that tells me…this isn't going to end peacefully. My ankle throbs, followed by my wrist, my ribs, as if to warn me that I'm not exactly in my fighting prime but I ignore the signs, shifting my weight to gain better balance on the slick pebbles beneath my bare foot.

"What is your job Ed?" Andrea snarls. "Sitting on your ass smoking cigarettes?"

"Well, it sure as _hell _ain't listening to some uppity smart-mouthed bitch, I'll tell you that. Come on; let's go!" Ed barks and I look down to where Carol is still silently perched on her crate, cringing into her bucket. I scowl at the sight, at the way Carol immediately tries to scramble up, and before I can think it through, I step in front of her, blocking her from her fucking bastard of a husband. Carol looks up at me with watery blue eyes and she shakes her head, pleading with me to move. A part of me tries to, remembers her begging me not to interfere, but it's a small part, a very small part, and I don't move an inch.

"I don't think she needs to go anywhere with you, Ed," Andrea says firmly and I am really considering hugging her or something because _damn. _

"And _I _say it's none of your business. Come on now. Move!"

Carol whimpers quietly, knowing that the last two sentences are directed at her, and tries to move around me. I block her again and reach out gently, trying to stop her. She refuses to meet my eyes and dodges my hands, moving too quickly for me to get my footing and stop her as she carefully hops over a crate. I curse my immobility and hop idiotically to turn my body around but Andrea's already got Carol, two hands on her shoulders and looking her right in the face, telling her she doesn't have to go. Carol shakes her head and I hear her whisper that it doesn't matter and the irritation that's been building in me starts to flicker into real flames of anger at the defeated quality of her voice as she tries to slip past Andrea too.

"Hey," Ed growls when Andrea refuses to let Carol pass. "Don't think I won't knock you on your ass just cuz you're some college educated cooze. All right?"

Andrea gasps in outrage but he ignores her and reaches for Carol. The sight of his hands on Carol's skin taints the edges of my vision red and I move forward, ignoring Amy's hands and pleas to stop. Ed is saying something else, something about Carol regretting her decision later, and I'm just imagining more bruises on her pale skin, bracelets and necklaces of them, when Jacqui, sweet, kind hearted Jacqui, snarls something at the asshole, calling him out on the monster he really is.

I owe her and Andrea a fruit basket or something.

Ed bares his teeth at Jacqui's words and literally spits at her feet. "This ain't none of ya'lls business. And I am done talking. Come here!"

Prior to this point, I haven't said a word. Not a single one. But not because I don't feel the same disgust that Andrea does, that Jacqui does. On the contrary, my loathing is probably more fathomless than either one of them could imagine. I've kept my silence because I know that talking is useless. _Arguing _is useless. Men like Ed Peletier don't respond to words; they respond to action. And previous to this point, I've kept myself at bay. Because Carol asked me to. Because I respected her wishes.

But the _instant_ that Ed grabs her, the second she actually tries to fight back, the exact _**moment **_that he smacks her, clear across the face, the crack of bone on bone, all mother fucking bets are _**off. **_

Now, when I was really young, I vaguely remember having a sweet disposition. There are these snatches of memory, still frames, like old, yellowed polaroids of fuzzy featured people smiling down at me and I remember the skin of my lips stretching in a grin as I said something funny and childishly cute, which made those people, mere nameless ghosts that were dead to me long before the end of the world, just smile all the brighter.

Additionally, I distantly recall the faint echoes of "_Oh isn't she just lovely?" _and "_She's the sweetest little thing I've ever laid eyes on." _I know people say things like that all the time to kids, about kids; I heard these platitudes plenty of times in supermarkets when people came up to gush about Irina's crystal blue eyes or Manny's deeply carved dimples, about how well mannered they were and how my mother must be _so_ proud. But, honestly, I think people were sincere when they told my parents those things, all those years ago. I have no recollection of being truly angry or upset in those early years, save the seldom occasions of childhood tantrums but I don't really count those since every child wants candy for breakfast or to stay up longer at night and when a parent says _no _it is almost an obligation to the young mind to pitch a fit. So, I don't count those instances and without them, my early childhood seems happy and placid, young Audrey all gap toothed grins and easy smiles, melodic laughter and sticky fingers grasped in my parent's.

Perhaps this is a lie, a delusion. Maybe I _was_ a difficult, sour child even then and I just don't remember it, blocked it out if only to make myself believe that I was happy once, before everything. I don't think that's the case but anything is possible.

However, that was a _long _time ago, that time frame not extending past my kindergarten year. That Audrey is long fucking gone. I like to think that I retain something of her, manners and principles that my parents had time to instill in me, things like yes sirs and no ma'ams, please and thank yous. I'm kind when shown kindness, sometimes even when I'm not; I try not to be selfish; I respect my elders and do my best to stay level headed. All the markers of a sweet and well rounded disposition, the girl I might have grown fully into if I only had the chance.

But, the fact of the matter is, I never had that chance. It was taken from me, stolen by a freak accident and the crumbling of a concrete road. The majority of young Audrey is lost to me now. Her innocence, her naivety but, most of all, her ability to be saccharine and always amiable, to never get angry past vaguely upset and to always forgive, kind and understanding. I can't find those lost parts of me; I believe they are gone for good, not even a vestige remaining, not even an echo or a vague impression.

Because right now… I don't feel the least bit forgiving. I don't fucking feel anything in the damn _realm _of sweet or understanding. I am fucking _livid. _Pissed beyond all imagining. All the holes in me, the pieces of young Audrey that I lost, are being filled by the _me _that I am today. The _me_ that I became in order to survive the years after kindergarten, a Gollum to the Sméagol I used to be: a rough and tumble bitch who is quick to bare teeth and even quicker to lash out; who, when she gets pissed, wants nothing more than to **fight**. (2) Since I met Mom and Sensei, that me has been toned down, been dormant, put to sleep by placid domesticity, like an alley cat who is taken in and fed milk for years but still remembers how to scrap and claw and wrestle. But now, all of those repressed feelings, all those instincts, come raging to the surface, called forth by the feelings of disgust and fury and so many other burning things coursing through my veins. I can't control it, don't think I want to, and it consumes me.

Andrea tries to shove Ed back after the last echo of his slap fades, smacking at his chest, his shoulders, his face. Jacqui jumps in too, grabbing at his arms so he can't reach Carol; so he can't _hit _her again. Even Amy, soft and quiet Amy who is too innocent to know anything about fighting or what it feels like to be hit, shoves herself between the Peletiers, wrapping her arms around Carol and shielding her from the blows Ed is managing to land. And all the while, everyone is screaming, yelling, cursing, clamoring to fight and be heard.

From there, everything happens really fast. I'm vaguely aware of a cold and wet sensation on my leg as I drop my bandaged foot into the water below me but I don't feel the pain as I lung forward. All I feel is Amy's arm between my fingers as I yank her and Carol deeper into the water, away from Ed; all I feel is my hand shoving Andrea to the side, pushing Jacqui out of the way.

All I feel is the warm hilt of my katana as I rip it out of it's sheathe and swing it around to land smack dab on Ed's collarbone.

Everything grinds to a halt. Ed stops fighting. Andrea and Jacqui stop trying to shove past me. I can hear Carol whimpering at my back and Amy shushing her but they do not move either. The only movement in the world is the rushing in my ear, the sharp bursts of my controlled breaths, and the stream of blood curling down Ed's chest

"_Enough," _I say into the silence and I don't recognize my voice. It's too low, too gravelly, too much like an animal's growl.

Ed stares at me and, for the first time, the arrogant, cocky air is gone from him. There's shock in his eyes now, and something akin to fear, as he drops his gaze below his chin and sees the way the tip of my katana has dug into his skin.

"Wh…what the hell are you doing? Get…get the fuck offa me!" Ed tries to scramble back, shove the sword away, but I press just a little harder on the steel in my grasp and he goes still with a grunt when the keen edge cuts a deeper, longer line into his skin. When I'm sure he's not going to move again, I let a smile creep onto my lips. Even if I can't see it, I know the expression looks crazed.

Good. Cuz that's exactly how I feel in this moment.

There's no process to my words as I begin to talk; there's no filter. Pure fury is driving me and I'm just as surprised as anyone at the words that slide off my tongue. "Eddie," I start. The word is a condescending croon and I love the hate that spark's in Ed's eyes when he hears it. "Can I call you Eddie? No, no. That's a rhetorical question. Don't answer," I say when he opens his mouth to speak. "I'm gonna call you Eddie cuz Eddie is a good little bitch's name and right now, you are _my_ obedient little bitch."

Ed jerks at my words but I bare my teeth and drag the katana a little bit further down his chest, carving a bleeding line about six inches from his collarbone. "Ah, ah, ah Eddie. I didn't fucking say you could move now did I? Move again and I'll carve your fucking little heart out and don't think I goddamn won't."

Someone gasps behind me but no one says a word. Even Ed remains quiet and I think _good. _Seems I've got this bastard's attention. Unadulterated hate has replaced the blood in my veins and I don't feel like myself. I feel wild and unhinged and I swear to God, I will keep my promise if Ed so much as sneezes right now because the echo of his hand snapping Carol's head to the side is still pulsing in my head and below that simmers a shit ton of memories, both recent and non, that I just don't want to think about.

"Now then. Since I have your attention, why don't you listen closely? I know your brain isn't exactly a prime specimen here Eddie, so I'll try to keep this as concise and easy to understand as possible."

Taking a step forward, I get as close to Ed as I can possibly stand. The entire length of my katana stretches against his chest and abdomen, light enough that I'm not cutting him anymore, but with enough pressure that Ed gets the message that if he so much as spits at me, I'm going to gut him like a pig.

"I've had a really trying day here, Peletier," I begin slowly. My voice has jumped a few octaves and now it's light and high pitched, a little girl's voice. "Well a trying few days anyway. I mean, yesterday, I go into the city to grab some meager supplies and I almost die!" I widen my eyes emphatically and put a fake tremble in my lip. "That's some serious crap for a little girl my size ya know? And _then, _on top of that, I have to deal with crazy ass Merle Dixon kicking my ass from Timbuktu and back and then trying to throw me off a roof! Someone's really pissing on me here Eddie."

Somewhere, in a distant part of my mind, I realize what I've just admitted out loud, the part about Merle killing me, but in this instant, I don't give a flying shit.

Ed swallows sharply, and he tries to scowl at me, glare, but I can see in his eyes he's scared shitless at this moment because I seem a bit deranged. I am but it's nice to know he's realized it. Still, I'm tired of being this close to such fucking _trash. _Time to wrap this up. Licking my chapped lips, I tilt my head at the man in front of me and drop the simpering façade. My jaw clenches tight, my lips thin into a dangerous line, and I would bet money that my eyes are as hard and sharp as glass.

"So, long story short, I've run out of patience. I've run out of compassion. And I sure as hell have run out of mercy. I'm done playing nice because all that's gotten me is being bruised and battered and I am tired of taking _shit _from pieces of crap like you," I snarl. Ed's jaw works, like he's going to say something, but I press the sword into his chest again and he shuts up real quick.

"A few weeks ago, you wanted to know what I had to say to you. Back then, I kept quiet but I am done sitting on the sidelines." Reaching up, I use my right hand, feeling no pain at all, to jerk Ed towards my face, fingers wound tight in his shirt. "I will say this once Eddie. I will say it this one fucking time as not a warning but a **promise **and if you ignore me, I will _kill _you without a second's hesitation." Worming my left hand up Ed's chest, I lay the edge of the katana against his cheek, pressing just that much harder with each of my following words. "_You will not touch Carol or Sophia ever again. _If I see so much as a **scrape **on either of them, I'm coming for you Eddie. I will fucking cut off your hands and then chop off that small dick between your legs and really make you the bitch we both know you always were. Then, and I don't give a damn if the whole camp is watching, I will gut you like the fat ass, _disgusting, _pig you are." Blood starts to run down Ed's cheek and I grin widely at the sight.

"Do we have an understanding?" I ask quietly. When Ed doesn't even blink, I pull the sword down his cheek, slicing a red line into his face. "I asked you a question Eddie. You'd best answer it."

Breathing sharp and irregular, sour breath ghosting across my face, eyes full up to the brim with hate, Ed slowly nods. I turn my head and lean in close. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

"_Yes," _Ed growls.

I pull back with a tight-lipped smile. "Good little bitch," I croon at him in mock praise. "Now get the fuck out of my sight."

Shoving him away, I turn to check on Carol, katana still clenched at my side, body still thrumming with anger. The four women stare at me in varying levels of shock and fear and, surprisingly, admiration. Their faces are still pale though and I open my mouth to say something, I don't know what but something reassuring, when I hear a shout of rage behind me and I whirl around just in time to see Shane grab Ed's first before it can connect with my face.

Disappointment wells in me because _damn. _That would have given me the perfect excuse to cut his hand off.

Ed snarls and kicks at Shane, and Ed might be bigger than Shane, wider, taller, but the other man is a former police officer, packed with muscle and an ingrained sense of putting assholes in their places. He drags Ed twenty feet away by the scuff of his neck like it's _nothing. _And when he's tired of carrying the son of a bitch, he bodily tosses him into the dirt, stalks up to his prone form, squats down, and _decks _Ed right in the face.

Carol starts crying and I hear Amy and Andrea trying to calm her down. Something in me says I should turn and try to comfort the woman too but I'm transfixed by the way Shane is literally beating Ed into the ground. Each punch is precise and controlled: curl fist, cock back, rocket forward, connect. Again and again and again. It's not the wild, untamed struggle of unleashed anger, like a bar fight brawl. It's the type of fighting you can only be trained to do. And damn is Shane good at it.

With each square hit, Ed's face starts to swell. I've long ago lost the ability to see the details of it, eyes, nose and mouth. It's just a mess of blood now, slick and shiny. But Shane doesn't stop, just keeps punching and punching and punching. Carol's cries grow louder behind me and the other women start screaming for Shane to stop. A part of me, the angry, dark part that just threatened to kill Ed myself, sits back and stares at the spectacle with satisfaction. Good, it thinks. Let the fucker get a taste of his own medicine.

But that angry part is slowly receding from me. The red haze is draining from my eyes. Pain starts to come back to me and with it, the parts of myself that my mom and Sensei had time to hone in the last years. The parts that are softer, more refined, and that realize letting a woman watch her husband get beaten to death right before her eyes, even if that husband deserves it, is wrong on more than one level. I don't feel guilty about watching Ed's blood stain the sand and dirt beneath him but I feel bad for Carol's heartbreaking cries behind me. Wincing at the sound of her sobs, I take a few steps forward and call out loudly for Shane to stop.

I don't know if it's my voice or the fact that Shane's worn himself out but the man finally comes to a halt. He crouches, panting, over Ed's prone form and what I can see from his profile is livid and wild. I watch as Shane bends down one last time and grabs Ed's face forcefully, fingers digging into the spilt meat on his cheeks.

"You put your hands on your wife, your little girl, or _anybody _else in this camp one more time, I _**will not **_stop next time. Do you hear me? _**Do you hear me?" **_Shane snarls in Ed's face.

The other man is near unconscious but he has enough sense to slur out a "_Yes."_

Shane bares his teeth and puts his finger in Ed's face as a promise. "I'll beat you to death, Ed." Craning his fist back for a final blow, he connects with Ed's cheek with the sound of breaking concrete. Shane shoves to his feet, kicks Ed in the ribs, and stumbles back a few steps, rage in his eyes as he swipes the flecks of blood off his mouth with the back of his hand.

Suddenly, there's a cry behind me, louder, sharper, than the other's and Carol is shoving past me before I can turn, collapsing at her husband's side with sobbed apologies and fluttering, unsure hands. Looking over my shoulder, I see Amy, Andrea, and Jacqui gazing between Ed's prone form and Shane, disgust and terror in their faces as Carol's cries echo out over the quarry. But when I look at Shane, when our eyes meet, there's this mutual understanding, this mutual admiration, and I can see clear in his eyes, as he can probably see clear in mine…

Neither of us is sorry.

* * *

><p>The journey from van to the buildin where Merle was at took an eternity and passed in the blink of an eye. On the one hand, Daryl knew that with every passin minute, every time they had to duck into an alley and wait for a geek to pass, was another minute his brother was in danger, another minute his brother had left to stew and get furious. But, on the other hand, every step they took brought them all that much closer to Merle…and Daryl still had no idea what he was going to say to him.<p>

He wants to just unlock his brother and laugh at the sunburn Daryl knows is gonna be stretched across his face, maybe cuff him over the head for bein so stupid, but let all this shit just pass. But Daryl knows he can't. Not with what he knows now. Merle tried to kill the kid and he ain't no fan of the rest of the people in camp neither. His brother hates the lot of them and Daryl realizes…they can't stay. Walsh and now Grimes too will probably kick them out, guns at the ready just in case. And Daryl, knowin what he now knows, can't blame them. He wishes he could say he was happy bout the fact. Just yesterday Daryl would have been delighted with the aspect of leavin. He had never wanted to stay with those assholes in the first place.

But now…now…

Daryl tries not to think bout the kid. He really does. But she has this damn quality bout her, somethin that won't let him go, and it's this constant cycle in his head of green eyes and white smiles and the lilt of her words, frustrated, teasing, as she read from that goddamn book of hers.

He remembers what he said to her. He remembers how he promised he'd leave the second he and Merle got back to camp. But that was said in the heat of the moment and things are different now and Daryl doesn't know if he even meant it in the first place.

But he can't think bout that now. Cuz he has to focus on Merle. He has to focus on gettin _in _the buildin and up to the roof. His brother was gonna be a force to be reckoned with when they reached him. He'd be dehydrated and tried and just a mean son of a bitch. Daryl had to figure out how to get Merle out of the store and into the van without tryin to deck one of the other men. He would worry bout all the other shit later.

The chink is leadin the way with Grimes right on his ass, gun out and cocked just in case somethin jumped out at them. Daryl wants to tell him to put the damn thing away cuz that gun is what apparently started the whole shit fest last time but he keeps his mouth shut cuz there ain't no use explainin that shit to some cop. He just holds his crossbow at the ready and hopes that if some geek stumbles into their path that he can get a bolt in their skull before some idiot pulls a trigger.

As the four of them slide quietly down back alleys and side streets, Daryl can't help the uneasy feelin that's settled in his gut. He doesn't like the city. Even before he hated it. Too many people and cars and noise; too many idiots. Now though…it's too silent. Sounds echo loudly and cast strange reverberations. Daryl hates it. It makes him twitchy, on edge, and he wants out of this concrete death trap, wants to head back to the woods and the country that he's got in his bones, in his blood. Silently, he picks up his pace and the others follow suite, dealin with their own discomfort.

They reach the building without incident. Chinaman is twitchy as he leads 'em, crouched and quiet, down a main street and to a bus-blocked alley. He motions for Daryl to go first and nods at crossbow in his hands. Daryl frowns at him but doesn't hesitate to slip past, peeking into the alley and slippin past the bus where there are no geeks close enough to pose an immediate threat. The squeeze is tight and Daryl grunts as the concrete scrapes painfully across his back, his chest, but he lands in the alley soundlessly, on his feet and poised.

There are three geeks at the end of the alley, near the door, and Daryl quickly brings them down with three well-placed arrows. The rest of the men slip in behind him and after a quick final sweep, in which Daryl collects his arrows, they move safely into the building, alert and on edge.

Surprisingly, the main floor is empty, save one walker. Rick spots it first and turns to Daryl but the hunter is already movin past him, puttin the geek in his sights and sneerin when it lunges for him.

"Damn. You are one ugly skank," he mutters to himself. He releases the arrow with a twitch of his finger and it tumbles to the ground, black blood oozing around the bolt protrudin from its forehed. Daryl tries not to notice that the walker is female, young, with short brown hair and pale skin but he does and even though the geek doesn't look very much like the kid back at camp, it makes his stomach clench regardless. Merle first he tells himself. Merle first.

The sprint up ten stories does a good job in snarin Daryl's senses. He has to keep his eyes on the next landin to make sure a geek ain't waitin for them. He has to keep an ear out to listenin for moans below them, above them. He has to keep his mind focused on the steps his mountin and to make sure one of the idiots don't fall or run into his crossbow. But when they reach the last landin, when the door to the roof looms before him, no obstacles in between, it all slams into Daryl with the force of a freight train and he loses his breath.

The sight of the chain, still intact and locked tight with a rusty old padlock, makes Daryl feel light headed and energized and relieved as fuck cuz no matter how pissed he is at Merle, he doesn't want his brother _dead. _And that had been a distinct possibility till now. But Merle's waitin on the other side of this steel door. He's waitin there and he's pissed and he's alive. Now Daryl can kick his ass for being such an idiot and he swears he's gonna do it, right after he claps his brother on the back and confirms that he is flesh and bone and thrummin blood

Grimes meets his eye when he sees the padlock and he nods at Daryl as if to say _See? It's all fine. _Daryl scowls at him and shifts anxiously in his spot, twitchy and with sparks in his veins as the nigger steps up and cuts the chain, yankin it out of the handle with a jerky movement.

Daryl doesn't waste a second after that. He shoves the nigger back and kicks down the door, burstin out into the afternoon sun with his brother's name on his lips. "Merle!" he calls out. No one answers but that doesn't mean nothin. The bastard might be sleepin or just fuckin with Daryl and the hunter calls out again as he runs out across a rickety metal walkway. "Merle! I ain't playin! Ya better—"

He jumps off the walkway and lands with a crunch in the gravel on the roof just as his words die on his tongue. Disbelief cuts through him, sudden, sharp and serrated, and he stumbles mid-step, not believin what he's seenin. The world grinds to a halt and tilts on its side; nausea rises in Daryl's throat and the air burns out of his lungs. The words, "_It can't be real. It can't be," _fly through Daryl's mind and he rocks back on his heels, spots dancin before his eyes. But no matter how he looks at it, how long he stares without blinkin, the sight doesn't change and Daryl doesn't realize he's talkin till his voice echoes out across the rooftop.

"_No!" _he screams out and the effort tears his throat and he tastes blood on his tongue. He takes half a step forward and then skitters back, all the while keepin up that continuos loop of denial. "_No! No! Nononono!" _

Tears blur his vision and Daryl can't stop them from fallin and they feel like acid on his skin, corrosive and strippin flesh from bone cuz he hasn't cried since they stuck his mother in the ground. Dixon's don't cry. It's a goddamn sin and Daryl hasn't done it in over two decades but he can't control it now cuz in the spot where his brother is supposed to be, whole and sunburned and livid, is a crimson streaked hacksaw, a scarlet soaked handcuff danglin limply from an iron pipe, and a disembodied hand, lyin in a pool of coagulated blood.

Daryl can't breathe and he stares and stares and stares, thinks that maybe if he looks hard enough, Merle will just appear out of thin air, alive and unharmed, a scowl on his face and insult on his tongue. _"Ya just gonna stand there boy? Get me the hell outta these things!"_

But minutes pass and nothin happens and Daryl feels sick to his stomach, too many things burnin through him to identify, cuz this is his worst fear come to life: the end of the world and he's all alone.

Abruptly, someone shifts behind him, and the despair in Daryl turns to rage so hot he's sure he's gonna burst into flames. Cuz all he can think is that his brother's not here but that's his blood, that's his _fuckin hand, _and it's all that nigger's fault. That godddam fuckin nigger. He's whirlin without realizin it and there's an arrow just about to be released into that _bastard's _skull when Daryl hears the click of a hammer in his ear and feels the cool metal of a gun barrel pressed right up against his temple.

"I won't hesitate," Grimes snarls at him, low and controlled and Daryl contemplates shootin him instead. "I don't care if every walker in the city hears it."

Daryl wants to say _fuck it, _let the asshole shoot him but he's taken the nigger with him. He almost does it too; finger on the trigger and last breath in his lungs. But, out of all the damn things to stop him, out of all the fuckin things, it has to be that stupid kid. Her face jumps to the forefront of his mind and it's all green eyes and soft smiles and the fact that she can't track for shit, none of the assholes in camp can, and if he just bites the bullet here, she's gonna die and it's gonna be his fault.

And then he recalls the looks everyone's been givin him since before he can remember. The words of his grandmother on the grave of her daughter. Daryl Dixon's been equated with dirt and shit and trash and he's always shrugged the names off like he doesn't give a crap what people thought of him cuz he knew what he was and he knew what he ain't and that was enough for him. But now he thinks that if he just lets that kid die, and those other kids back in camp even if they think him a monster, he'll be deservin of all the labels people have slapped him with over the years.

It's that thought that has him droppin the crossbow and takin a deep breath. It's that thought that has him stampin down the rage and thinkin logically again; that makes him notice there's not enough blood for Merle to be dead and there's no body so his brother was still alive somewhere. It's that thought that has him tuckin Merle's hand away and followin the trail of blood, calm and cool and collected, as much as he could be anyway.

And even when they find the broken out window and realize Merle's left the buildin, Daryl let's that thought push him forward. Out into the city, out onto the street, backup for Chinaman as they plan to grab a bag of guns and ammo and other life alterin necessities that Daryl tells himself they need to find Merle. And when the chink gets snatched right in front of him, takin by some fuckin dickhead _**spics, **_Daryl lets that thought fuel his rage and his motivation to get Chinaman back.

Cuz Daryl might be an asshole and he might be a bastard, but he ain't garbage and he ain't shit. He's not gonna leave the chink to die cuz the idiot came back with him for Merle, though he still doesn't know why, and…also…

Chinaman was Audrey's friend and Daryl would be _damned _if he lost him to the city after everythin the kid has done for him. After all the ways he's wronged her in return.

Daryl would return with the chink or he wouldn't return at all.

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><p><strong>(1) It's a racist, Nazi thing. :P<strong>

**(2) LOTR reference :) Sméagol is this creature thing that develops an alternate personality, a tougher one, in order to survive horrific events.**

**AUTHORS NOTE BELOW AND SHAMELESS PROMOTING!**

**_First order of business, I wrote a TWD oneshot recently so if you are all so inclined go check it out :D It's called _In Memoriam_ and is a future fic featuring Carl. Hope you guys enjoy it!_**

**Now about this chapter:**

**Volia? Idk. :P I hope you guys liked this and, again, sorry about the wait DX Please drop some comments in the box below though :) I adore your feedback! **

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**

**PS: Has anyone seen the season 3 trailer? Cuz i died when i did. Go watch if you havent. It...i have no words. :)**

**PPS: I also named each chapter now...idk why but I felt a creative flourish today xD just something new. Ignore it if you like!**


	20. This is the Way the World Ends

**So these past few days have been balls to the wall crazy. A lot of my friends were leaving out of state for college so I had to run around and squeeze in a last few minutes with them! Sorry about the resulting wait! **

**But here is chapter 20! :D I cant believe I've gotten this far with the story. I never dreamed I would and I have all you lovely readers to thank! So THANK YOU! From the bottom of my heart. :) You are what keeps Audrey's story alive so keep being awesome and dropping reviews! ^^**

**Warning: Language and some slight gore/violence. **

**Disclaimer: Do you see me rich and hanging out with this awesome cast? No? There's a reason for that. I own nothing.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 20: This is the Way the World Ends; Not with a Bang but with a Bite.<strong>

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><p>It is miserably hot and I try not to fidget as sweat makes the bandages I'm wearing damp and uncomfortable, a headache thrumming heavily behind my eyes. The cicadas hum particularly loud and the vibrations reverberate down to my bones. It sets my teeth on edge and I'm restlessly tired.<p>

Carl is sitting across me, perched sloppily on a scuffed up crate with a small table between us. His brow is creased with concentration, his pale blue eyes skipping around on the worn pages between his fingers and I find my gaze lazily tracing the tattered cover: the large white title, the golden seal of a Newberry award set high and to the left, the lined face of an old man gazing off to the side. His eyes are shadowed, his beard and hair overlong. Not for the first time, I wonder at the secrets in the furrows of his visage, the memories too horrible to tell, the whole history of humanity locked up inside his head, his burden alone to bear.

I wonder if I'll wear that same expression one day: a far off look searching for better things, better times. If I even live that long that is.

There's a silence between Carl and I as he finishes off the chapters I assigned him. His lips move wordlessly as he mouths the passages he reads but the sounds don't breech the barrier of his straight, white teeth. We had started out as we always do: me, reading out loud to him, him, listening, taking notes, answering questions once I was finished. But a few pages in and I couldn't get the words out around the hot pain in my temples, my tongue heavy and slurring, as if the very _wish _for painkillers had me fuzzy. I tried to have Carl read out loud to me, we did that sometimes, as if practicing for public speaking, but even his quiet voice had me clenching my eyes shut and trying to breathe through a migraine. I almost sent him away and stumbled to my tent but there was something in his eyes, a silent, sad quality, that had me suggesting that he just read a few chapters quietly to himself and once he was done, I'd answer his questions and we'd have a discussion. I had hoped that, by then, the pain would be manageable.

Honestly, it's only getting worse.

As if on cue, my wrist pounds with a watered down version of agony and I purse my lips to keep from hissing out loud. I drop my gaze to the offending appendage in my lap and carefully flex my fingers. The pain only doubles and I come to the conclusion that I didn't come away from my confrontation with Ed exactly unscathed. I should probably unwind the bandage and check it out but I have no desire to touch the pulsing limb and see the mess of bruises on my skin. Still, the fear is Ed's eyes and the blood that I was able to stain my katana with was more than worth it. And watching Shane beat the ever-living shit out of the bastard? That was definitely worth walking all the way back up to camp. Even if my ankle doesn't seem to agree with me.

"Hey Audrey?"

I blink at my name and turn to see Carl staring up at me. There's a question in his eyes, quietly demanding to be answered. I do my best to curb the urge to just shut my eyes and put my head down.

"Yes Carl?"

The young boy frowns and then turns the book in his hands to face me. "What's this word?" he asks, finger pointing at a random combination of letters near the end of the page. The ink swims hazily across my vision and I have a hard time focusing long enough to read the word. I can tell it starts with an _S _but beyond that, the letters are lost to me.

Sighing, I rub tiredly at my eyes, wincing when I press on tender bruises. "I can't read it," I admit. "How's it spelled?"

Carl flips the book back around. "Uh _S-I-N-U-O-U-S." _

It takes a moment for me to process the word, to piece the letters together. "Oh. Sinuous," I say when I finally get it. I repeat the word slowly for him so he can hear the pronunciation. "It basically means that something has a lot of twist and turns. Like a winding road or something." The definition isn't the best one I could give but I think it's adequate enough.

Mouthing the word to test it out, Carl nods and flashes me a small smile. "Oh. Thanks," he says. I reach across the table, ignoring the flare in my side, the tilt of my vision, and ruffle his hair. He frowns and bats my hand away.

"That's what I'm here for," I laugh. Dropping my eyes to _The Giver, _I jerk my chin at the splayed open pages. "How far are you anyway? Almost done?"

"Uh," Carl stutters. He flips back a few pages. "Chapter 13. But I just started."

I hum in acknowledgement. I had told him to read to chapter 15, five chapters from where we had stopped the last time, but I don't know if I can wait through the last 2 sections and then go into an in depth discussions. Three chapters will have to do for today.

"Ok. I think we can stop for now." I lean forward and gently extract the book from Carl's grasp. I'm just about to leaf through the pages, force myself to try and read some passages, refresh my memory so I can ask some questions, when Carl speaks up.

"W…wait." Looking up, I see him bite his lip and shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Can…can we not…do the discussion yet?" His eyes meet mine uncertainly before they flicker away. I wonder if he's tired like me or just bored. I don't have the energy to feel bad about the latter option.

"Sure," I reply instead, trying not to feel relieved. "Can I ask why though?"

Carl shrugs and I watch as his fiddles with something in his hands, fingers twining and twirling against each other. "I…I don't want Sophia to miss anything," he mutters.

There's a flush on his pale, freckled cheeks, crawling up his to ears. He still won't meet my gaze but there's that sad quality I had seen before in every inch of him: the hunch of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the shape of his mouth. I want to hug him, say something comforting, but the words won't come. And I can't lie; tell him it's ok. Carl might not have seen what happened between Ed and I, Ed and Shane, but he saw the aftermath. He saw how the Peletier's drove up alone from the quarry, the rest of us forced to either wait for Shane to come back from driving the clothes up or walk the path. He saw the tears in Carol's eyes as she pulled Sophia towards their tent. He saw the state of Ed's face. Carl's worried about his friend. In some ways, I am too. Sophia's probably really stressed out between Carol's frantic, upset disposition and Ed's…well the fact that her "father's" beat to hell. But I'm not worried about Sophia's physical well being. Even if Ed could get on his feet, he wouldn't be as stupid as to go for his wife or daughter again. Not with his skin sliced in places from my sword. Not with Shane's knuckles imprinted on every inch of his face.

I hadn't planned on standing up to Ed but I don't regret it for a second. If it means that Sophia is safe not just from hunger but pain now too? I'd have taken Ed's fist to my jaw if it meant that. I'm happy I didn't have to but I would have. I wouldn't have stood back any longer. It makes a sickening ache awake in my gut when I think about how long I waited in the first place.

"Ok," I tell Carl, pulling myself from my broodings. "That's fine. I'm sure Sophia will appreciate that too."

Carl blushes again and drops his gaze. There's a hint of black in his fiddling fingers and I tilt my head at it.

"What's that?"

It's an arrowhead. Carl peels back his fingers and offers it to me, palms up, like I gift. I extend my hand and brush the cool stone, black and sharply lined, about the size of a quarter, maybe a little large. A small bead of blood wells on the tip of my index finger when I press on the serrated tip. I don't even flinch at the miniscule sting.

"Me and Shane found it," Carl says. He puffs his chest out and nearly preens with pride. "I saw it first but Shane picked it up before the water could become to murky. He says I have a good eye."

I think back to the grin Carl wore when Shane had been poking around his palms. They must have been admiring this small stone. "Shane's right. I probably would have missed it. I'm blind as a bat you know." It's not exactly true, I have just about perfect vision, but I lie for the sake of a smile, leaning forward again to grope blindly along the table, crawling up Carl's arm and patting softly at his face, ruffling his hair again. The boy giggles at my antics and the sound soothes the ache in my skull, makes me grin despite the fact that I'm still wracked with pain. A part of me wants to compare Carl's laughter, light but with a slightly deeper undertone that spoke of a thicker voice when puberty finally struck, to the high pitched shrieks of amusement in my head, young and innocent, brown eyes and dimples. I shake off the thought and force myself to focus on the here and now.

The two of us mess around for a few more minutes, _The Giver _abandoned on the table. By the time that Amy and Andrea stroll back into camp, my cheeks hurt for reasons other than bruises and I'm breathless not because of pain. Carl quickly leaves my side when Morales starts brandishing the throng of fish Andrea's just handed him and he pokes at the limp bodies, nose wrinkling at the texture like he's not sure that he likes it. It doesn't stop him from poking at the fish some more though.

Amy looks happy and accomplished as she takes a healthy swig from her water bottle, dancing in place with satisfaction. I roll my eyes at her but can't deny it's good to see her smile. She was really upset after the ordeal with Ed and I hadn't found the time to talk to her yet. After Shane stepped off of Ed's prone body, I knew it was going to be _hell _heading back to camp. It wasn't like I could ride in Carol's car after what happened and I didn't find sitting next to Shane very appealing, even if it was for five minutes. That being said, with everyone preoccupied, I slipped away, nabbing a small bag of clothes and starting my lone trek up the hill. It took three times as long to reach camp and I was woozy with pain and exhaustion but I still felt like I dodged a bullet with my decision. With Lori finding me not long after and asking if I could do a class with Carl, and with Amy heading back down to the lake to fish with her sister, there was just no time to talk. I'm not particularly looking forward to the conversation, I know how off the handle I kind of went, but I know Amy's going to find a way to have it either way and so I'm just resigned to the fact now.

Still, that doesn't mean I'm rushing to embrace that awkward discussion so I sit back a few yards and watch the rest of the camp interact from a distance. The atmosphere is light and lively, everyone happy about the prospect of even more food. Simon, the Army vet who backed out of the supply run, I try not to blame him but I might just a little in the back of my mind when my wrist aches particularly bad, had some experience with hunting and had managed to gut and skin the small deer Daryl brought back, the carcass left untouched in the whirlwind of events that had transpired. The fawn had produced a hefty amount of meat but I couldn't help but think that Daryl would have yielded more, done a better job at the carving and skinning. Then I felt slightly guilty for criticizing Simon's job pretty much well done and more than a little sick and sad when the thought of Daryl writhed painfully in my chest. I felt even worse when everyone else praised Simon for what he done, even though Daryl had been doing it, and doing it _better, _for months. I kept silent and let them be happy though, even when I felt bitter and tired.

With the fish and deer added to the supplies that we brought back from the city, the whole camp is almost buoyant with happiness, people joking and laughing, color in cheeks and a mirthful glint in everyone's eyes.

I wish I could say I am surprised when Dale walks up, brow furrowed and eyes shadowed, and says, "I don't want to alarm anyone but uh…we might have a bit of a problem."

But in all honesty? I'm really not. I know better by now.

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><p>It takes them a while to reach the relatively safe office space where, half an hour ago, the chink had outlined a plan that seemed crazy yet doable but now just seemed down right stupid. The geeks were swarmin the surroundin streets, hyped up by the commotion, and Daryl cursed the numerous close calls they had, just windin through side alleys. On top of the general difficulty, the stupid spic kid kept tryin to escape, twistin out of Grimes' arms and takin three steps before the cop dragged him back. After the fifth time, and nearly gettin all of them bit, Daryl swung around and punched the spic straight in the mouth, sharp teeth splittin his knuckles and blood sprayin everywhere. The asshole didn't try again.<p>

Now, they're all sittin around, tryin to get the bastard to talk, tryin to get him to tell them where they took the chink. There's fear in the spic's eyes, Daryl can see it plain as day, but he sneers when Grimes repeats his question, scoffs and spits at the cop's feet. Daryl paces angrily a few steps away and he feels the irritation burnin under his skin, tryin to split him open.

"Those men you were with," Grimes starts in again. His tone is soft and coaxin, like he's tryin to be a friend. "We need to know where they went. We just want to talk, get our man back. That's all."

The skinny spic rolls his eyes and wipes at the blood in the corner of his mouth, trailin down his chin. "I ain't tell you nothin," he drawls with false bravdo and swagger. Daryl knows he can wipe that smirk of his face in less than five fuckin minutes.

Grimes sighs and rubs tiredly at his chin. Diplomacy's gotten him nowhere and he's at a loss of what to do. Beside him, T-Dog groans and sits back, smackin the table he's perched on. "Jesus man! What the hell happened back there?!" His eyes burrow into Daryl and the hunter would have to be blind to miss the accusation in his eyes.

He blames Daryl and while Daryl ain't surprised, it still pisses him off all the same.

"I told you," he growls out. His pacin has become faster, more aggressive, sharp pivots and long strides. The chink's been gone for almost an hour now and they only have some many more hours of daylight; only so many hours to get Chinaman and find Merle. "This son of a bitch and his douche bag friends came out of nowhere and jumped me!"

Daryl's ribs ache, bruised and sore, as does his back and hands from where one of the mother fuckin spics stepped on it as he tried to reach for his crossbow. His right eye throbs too and he knows he'll have a shiner by nightfall.

"You're the one who jumped me, puto, screaming about tryin to find his brother like it's my damn fault." Daryl bristles, not knowin any other language but English yet still knowin when someone is insultin him.

"They took Chinaman," he snarls, the chink's scream of terror still resoundin in his ears. "Could have taken Merle too." Daryl didn't know there was anyone left breathin in the city. Seems like he was wrong. So it wasn't that insane to think Merle found these assholes, or the other way around. The thought ain't comfortin, not in the least bit, cuz even though Merle's injured, lost a lot of blood, he wouldn't hesitate to spit some slurs at some Mexicans, even if they had guns. It's earned him a few split lips and broken noses in the past. It might have earned him a bullet now.

The spic sneers again, teeth bared and eyes bright. He laughs and it's a mockin huff of breath. "Merle? What kind of fuckin hick name is that? I wouldn't name my _dog _Merle."

He meets Daryl's eyes like a challenge and Daryl ain't one to back down. First and foremost out of anythin, Merle taught him to never take shit from _anyone _and Daryl ain't bout to start with this _fuckin spic kid. _He lunges without thinkin, without restraint, and if it weren't for goddamn Grimes, Daryl would have the son of a bitch flat on his back, bloodied and beggin for mercy. But Grimes grapples his hands round Daryl's chest, his back, before he can get close and he shoves the hunter away forcefully. It doesn't hurt, not much, even with the bruises on Daryl's ribs, but it gets him too far away to harm and maim and _beat _the bastard until they got some information or until Daryl felt damn better. Whichever came first.

Daryl gnashes his teeth and clenches his fists but Grimes sends him this _look _and steps in between their prisoner and him, barrin the distances. He starts up the diplomatic approach again, kindly askin the spic to just help them out. It's gettin them nowhere. Just as it got them nowhere before. Daryl still just wants to pummel the words out of the fucker but suddenly thinks of another, just as potent but less tiring, approach.

Skirtin around Grimes, Daryl makes his way to the chink's bag that got left behind, yankin open zippers and pockets, searchin aggressively. It takes a few tries but he eventually finds what he's lookin for. Pullin the blue cloth into his hands, he pivots around to face the group. Grimes meets his eye with a half formed question but Daryl ignores him, unwrappin the slightly wet cloth in his hands.

"Wanna see what happened to the last guy that pissed me off?"

A slight scent of decay wafts into Daryl's face but he fights his gag reflex and doesn't look down. Instead, he locks eyes with the skinny spic, scowls as hatefully as he can, and throws Merle's disembodied hand into the asshole's lap.

Because other than pain, fear is the biggest motivator for all of fuckin humanity. And Daryl goddamn knows it.

There's a split second delay, the kid not processin what he's seein, but then the sight registers in his head and he jumps out of his seat with a scream of terror, scramblin back and fallin on his ass. Daryl follows him and gets right up in his face, hands pullin at the grimy wife beater the bastard has on, digging into his jaw. He sees the fear in the kid's eyes, bright and sharp and poisonous, and knows he's gonna get an answer now.

Still, he can't help but throw out one last idle threat, snarlin about how he'll start at the feet next time, right before Grimes pulls him off.

When Daryl's out of the way, Grimes asks one more time where the other man's group is. "We just want our friend back. Think you can help us out now?"

The kid answers like the words are batterin against the back of his teeth, trippin off his tongue. "I can show you," he stutters. "I'll…I'll show you."

Daryl sneers in triumph and moves to start packin their stuff. However, as he slings Chinaman's bag on, checks his crossbow, and starts to follow the skinny spic and Grimes back out onto the street, he tries not to notice the position of the sun and how it feels like he's runnin out of time.

#

He doesn't expect them to be so well armed. Or for their numbers to be so many. But Daryl quickly finds out he's wrong on both accounts when he's starin down the barrels of at least five guns, three other men behind them with blunt instruments: bats, pipes, axes etc. It set his teeth on edge, awakens the _fight or flight _instinct ingrained in his bones and every fiber of his body is screamin for the latter, Chinaman or not. Beside him, Grimes shifts in unease at the hostile welcomin they've received but he doesn't back down and Daryl finds himself prayin that T-Dog has some resemblance of aim. By the way his barrel shakes when Daryl glances up at his roof position the hunter highly doubts it.

In front of them, a lone man extracts himself from the welcome wagon and walks forward. He's small, Daryl notices, short and kinda slight. But Daryl doesn't let that fool him. He's obviously the leader. There's a hardness to the man's features, a shadow to his eyes, and even though he wears a rosary around his neck, Daryl doesn't think he's too devout what with the gun protrudin from the waistband of his jeans. The man looks calm and at ease, body language lax, but Daryl knows he's as alert as the rest of them and ready to fight if need be.

"You ok little man?" he suddenly asks, eyes only for the spic kid that Daryl has trained in his sights. His voice is low pitched and accented. Merle would of called him a border-nigger.

The skinny kid in the dirty wife beater actually whimpers and takes half a step forward before Grimes clears his throat in warnin. He jolts to a halt but leans towards his leader anyway, like a dog strainin for somethin while on a leash. "They were gonna cut off my feet, carnal. Mis _pies,_" he stresses in Spanish, as if the other man hadn't understood him the first time. The leader's, Guillermo or whatever the kid had said, eyes suddenly click over to Grimes, head tilted in silent consideration.

"Cops do that?"

"Not _him. _This redneck _puto _here!" The spic gestures back towards Daryl, meetin the hunter's eye for a fraction of a second before turning back to his group leader. There might have been a little more courage, a little more balls, in his voice but he ain't bout to challenge Daryl again. Not when he can still remember the wet _splat _the hand had made when it landed in his lap. "He cut off some dude's hand man! He showed it to me!"

Daryl bares his teeth in a snarl when Guillermo's gaze flickers over to him, somethin judgin and disgusted in his eyes, but Daryl has no time to think about that cuz suddenly, two men are stridin from the open door in front of them, and they ain't happy to see Daryl.

The hunter can't help but think _yeah, _feelin's mutual.

"Hey! That's the vato right there homes!" A bald headed man that Daryl vaguely recognizes hefts a gun to eye level and cocks the hammer back. His eyes are wild and he's limpin. Daryl wants to smirk and wonders if he can ask for his arrow back. Instead, he just keeps his crossbow level and loaded, shiftin from the bald guy to the leader and back again, keepin an eye on the other men behind them. "He's the one that shot me in the ass! What's up homes huh? Wanna try that shit again? Do it! Come on!" Daryl opens his mouth to curse and growl out that the bastard had been _kidnappin _Chinaman and deserved an arrow to the head, not ass, but the leader shoves his man's gun down and throws an arm out to stop the man from advancin. The bald man subsides but still glares hatefully at Daryl. Daryl returns the look with interest.

Guillermo mutters somethin to the man beside him, callin words not in English before he turns back to the rest of them. "This true?" he asks. The question, and his eyes, is directed at Grimes, leader to leader. "He wants Miguelito's feet? That's pretty sick."

Grimes clears his throat and, unsurprisingly, goes diplomatic again. Though, he doesn't lower his gun any and Daryl has to silently commend him for that. "We were hoping more for a calm discussion."

The other man snorts and fixes Grimes with an incredulous look. "That hillbilly," he says, a sneer blatant in his voice though he keeps his eyes on Grimes. Daryl bristles at the insult but says nothin. There are still over five guns trained on him and besides, he's been called worse. "He jumps Felipe's little cousin, beats on him if that cut on his lip is any indication, threatens to cut off his feet, Felipe gets an arrow in the ass and you want a calm discussion?" He shakes his head and the sneer in his voice finally starts to show on his face, a small curl of lip. "You fascinate me officer."

"Heat of the moment," Grimes returns. "Mistakes were made. On _both _sides. We just want out man back. I think you can relate."

The spic kid whines again and tries to move forward another step but Daryl reaches out and grabs him by the back of his shirt, yankin him back. The kid stumbles, the other men flinch, and Daryl bares his teeth. He ain't bout to let the kid back to his group before they let Chinaman go. Daryl doesn't like the way these "negotiations" are goin and they can't lose their leverage.

Guillermo narrows his eyes at Daryl, a tick in his jaw. When he speaks again, his words are clipped if not mocking. "Who's that dude to you anyway? None of you look related."

"He's one of our group. Don't have to be family to survive together. I'm sure you have a few like him."

When the other man shrugs in agreement, Daryl can't help but think of Merle, the word _family _resoundin in his head. "You got my brother in there?" he asks as calmly as he can. The result is more of a sharp bark than a snarl. Unconsciously, he's been lookin round the lot they're in, searchin for blood, any sign of Merle, but the debris and weeds offer no answers. The spic in front of him doesn't either.

"Sorry," he says, soundin anythin but. "We're fresh out of white boys. But I got Asian." His sneerin gaze leaves Daryl and switches back to Grimes, expression becomin blanker. "Interested?"

Grimes shifts uneasily and Daryl realizes the other man knows that this ain't exactly goin as planned. They still hadn't seen Chinaman. For all they knew…he was already dead. "I have one of yours, you have one of mine. Sounds like an even trade."

"Don't sound even to me."

Daryl goes rigid and thinks _here we go. _He knew this wasn't goin to be as easy as they'd hoped. Once the other man had started talkin, stallin, bidin time instead of just takin his man back, Daryl knew there had to be somethin else he wanted. He just didn't know what.

"_G! _Man, come on. _Please._"

The kid's pleadin falls on deaf ears. 'G' doesn't even spare him a glance. "My people got attacked," he starts. "Where's the compensation for their pain and suffering?" His voice takes on an almost wheedlin quality before he drops the façade and fixes Grimes with a steely-eyed look. "But more to the point…where's my bag of guns?"

Daryl almost laughs. The guns. Of course. These men don't give two shits bout some useless kid. Guns though…that's more valuable than gold. Daryl knows the ultimatum before the other man even says it, knows that it's Chinaman or the guns, sentiments or survival. Daryl doesn't even pay attention to the conversation any more. He's too busy countin the men in the open doorway thirty feet away, the number of guns they have, the amount of ammo they _could _have and comparin it to the three arrows he has left, the few rounds Grimes has in his shotgun, the bullets in T-Dog's rifle that probably won't even meet their mark. They're fucked and he knows it. When he half hears Guillermo threaten to unload on them right then, Daryl shifts around, bouncin the sight of his crossbow from man to man but he's expectin an inevitable bullet to the face either way. It never comes. Amazinly, Guillermo backs off when Grimes points out the "sniper" they have on the roof. The spic ain't wantin a bullet between his teeth either. But he ain't exactly backin down. Tearin his eyes away from the barrel of T-Dog's rifle, he actually smirks at them.

"_Oye!" _he calls out. He tilts his head up toward the roof of the buildin behind him. Daryl follows his motion and there's a muffled soundin scuffle before there are three men standin on the edge and the chink is one of them. He looks scared shitless, pale and sweaty, duck tape over his mouth, a thin gash on his brow and blood trailin down the side of his face. One of the men holdin him jerks him forward a little bit, as if to throw him off the roof, and even though Daryl doesn't really like Chinaman that much, doesn't really know him, that's a pretty fucked up way to die.

In his peripherals, Daryl sees Grimes go pale before scowlin in what could only be defeat. He knows they're fucked too.

"I see two options," Guillermo says. Daryl forces himself to listen. "You come back with Miguel and my bag of guns, everybody walks. We'll return your Asian and you can be on your way. Or you come back locked and loaded. We'll see which side spills more blood."

Daryl spares a glance behind the man, sees the eight-armed men in the doorway and the shiftin of more shadowy figures farther back. They both know which side's gonna spill more blood and Daryl hates that he fuckin knows it.

He thinks back to ultimatum he gave himself; that he'd return with Chinaman or not at all.

It was stupid, he didn't think he had meant it, just felt guilty bout the chink getting snatched up in front of him but…seems like the latter option was becomin more and more fuckin likely.

* * *

><p>The quarry in which our camp is located in is high up in the hills. There are gorges and ditches, cliffs and the entire area curves and dips in intervals. The main part of camp is set in a relatively flat area, a touristy picnic section of the quarry between the sheer drop towards the lake and steep hills on all other sides. Jim's, of course, on the side opposite of the lake, the forest section that gradually inclines up and up and up. The dirt path that winds up the hill is uneven and shifty, sand and loose soil. I loose my footing more than once and would have fallen if it weren't for Amy's hand on my elbow, around my waist. I hadn't asked her to help but she was there nonetheless and even though she still hasn't said a word to me, every time our eyes clash I send her a grateful smile. Amy and I are at the back of the group, taking our time as Shane and the others stride faster and farther, rounding a bend half a football length in front of us. She huffs beside me and I turn to see her cheeks flushed, sweat beading on her temples.<p>

"God. Why is it so damn hot all the time?"

I laugh shortly and tilt my head back, closing my eyes and soaking in the scalding afternoon sun as we walk. "It's the tail end of a Georgia summer Amy. It's gonna be hot as hell for at least a month more."

The blonde grumbles and I crack open an eye to see her scowling at the cloudless sky above us. "Yeah well…you think we could catch a break every once in a while? I mean it's not like the world went and ended on us or anything," she says, kicking spitefully at the ground. I frown at the bitterness in her voice but have no response for her. The heat is unrelenting but I've accepted the fact that this is what our situation is; no use on crying over it.

Ok. So maybe I curse the sun every once in a while but it's mostly an empty motion. Amy sounds like she was expecting something better and is disappointed. I can't help but think she's still too 'city-spoiled-kid' and then feel guilty for thinking of her like that.

It's quiet for the next few minutes as we continue our slow ascent. My head is still throbbing, my arm, especially my ankle now too. More than once, I think about just heading back but I've already come this far and something about Dale's expression, the pinch of his brow or set of his mouth, made me uneasy. Whatever was going on with Jim wasn't good. I couldn't just sit and twiddle my thumbs back at camp as whatever was going down came to a head. I probably _should…_but that would basically leave me at the bottom of the hill with Ed Peletier and Mr. St James and that isn't exactly the ideal tea party for me. On top of that and in addition to the fact that sitting on the sidelines isn't _me_, I know that if I stop moving now, I'll most likely pass out and I can't do that. I have to wait for Glenn to get back. Ever since they left I've had this tension growing through every inch of me and I know it won't release until my friend is back safe within my sights. Not for the first time, I silently curse Rick for pulling Glenn along for yet another run into the city. Glenn's done enough death defying shit thank you very much.

"So…" Amy starts suddenly and I blink in surprise as the word shatters the silence. I glance over her again but she isn't looking at me, instead keeping her eyes locked straight ahead. "Down by the lake? Care to explain?"

The question is blunt, straightforward, and unsurprising; I knew she was going to ask it eventually. Still, I can't help but flush in slight embarrassment, in thick anger, and a very small undercurrent of irritation that Amy just couldn't let something be for once. Sighing, it's my turn to avert my eyes. I glance off into the trees bordering the dirt path we're on, shrugging and going for nonchalant.

"What's there to explain? You saw what he did to Carol. I wasn't about to just let him beat her face in." I cut a glance at Amy to find her looking at me through the corner of her eye. "Why?" I ask. My tone has taken on a fine, razor's edge. "Do you think I should have kept quiet? Just stood back?"

Amy whirls on me with wide, horrified eyes. "N…no! No. I…I just…I don't know," she shrugs, biting her lip. "You…you seemed…" She struggles, at a loss for words.

"Crazy?" I supply. She shakes her.

"Not like yourself."

I purse my lips at her words, something clenching uncomfortably beneath my ribs, before I turn away again. My jaw works slowly and the grinding of my teeth makes my already bruised jaw feel raw and tender. There are these images in my head, me as a young, young, child, as an old woman in a too small body, as a struggling pre-teen; old Audrey, new Audrey, and everything in between, jagged pieces that don't fit that well together, shattered too many times to mesh as they are supposed to. It all leaves a foul taste in the back of my mouth. "Yeah well…" I start off slowly. "You don't know everything about me Amy."

I don't mean to sound so cold but I don't have the energy for this.

"But I'd like to." Amy suddenly reaches out and takes a hold of my arm, forcing me to stop. Her blue eyes are trained on me, bright and determined. The last time we had something resembling this conversation was in the RV, her begging me to explain to her why I could keep trying to defend the Dixons, to cover for them. Before that, it had been the _Emma Incident _as I like to call it. Amy's made it no secret that she wishes I was more open about myself. And I've tried to, really. But…my past is dark and deep and tangled. I can't reveal one part without others being dragged into the light along with it. If I tell her that I stood up to Ed because I hated seeing weaker parties being abused, I would have to tell her why. And if I told her why, I would have to speak of Mitch and Eleanor, of Adam Keene and a little girl named Emily. I…I can't do that. Not now. Maybe one day, if the world ever calms back down. But not today, bruised and exhausted, standing in the middle of this dirt road with sweat on my brow and blood on the back of my tongue. It's all too close, too unsettling and I don't have the strength.

Sighing again, I slip out of Amy's grasp, her fingers tightening for a split second before falling from my arm. I flinch at the hurt in her eyes.

"I know you do Amy," I say quickly, trying to rectify my seemingly dismissive gesture. "But…I'm not ready for you to. I'm sorry but…it's hard for me all right? And…my life's kind of a long story."

That at least is the truth. My life _is _a long, fucked up story. But Amy doesn't know that. She thinks my parents were awesome and gave me what ever I wanted: karate lessons, swords lessons, probably a car for my sixteenth birthday. It's not her fault though; I led her to believe that. And that's another thing. If and when I do end up telling her about my life…I'm going to have to reveal the lies I had fed her. Well, that's going to be a fun time all the way around.

Amy considers me for a moment, brow and mouth pinched. As the silence stretches, I think I've upset her again, that she's going to blow up at me like before and stalk off, leaving me feeling like an asshole. But she doesn't do either of those things. Instead, her eyes drop to my waist and the determined light in her eyes takes on a troubled quality.

"Is…" she trails off, throat working as she tries to expel her question. "Is that scar on your side…is it part of that long story?"

I blink and for a moment, fear seizes me, my brain frantically scrambling to figure out how she knew. It's a reflexive fear, ingrained, something I always felt when changing for gym in the girls locker room or whenever I went for a swim. But then I remember that day I yanked the hem of my shirt up in an idiotic flare of emotion, displaying the ropy, jagged, six inch piece of skin for all to see. No one has brought that instance up since then. Sometimes, I'll catch Lori gazing at me in concern, or Glenn with his eyes glued to my side but they've never verbally asked. Until now. My first instinct is to lie, another ingrained reflex, but I can't think of anything believable off the top of my head and, in the end, I just settle for another general truth.

"Yeah. It is."

Amy nods, almost to herself, and seems to accept my nearly monosyllabic response. She lifts her head and smiles at me, soft and sad, before she takes my arm again, this time winding it through her own. "Ok," she says. It sounds like she's acquiesced. "I can wait till you're ready. Just…know you can talk to me any time all right?"

I smile gently back at her, doing my best to ignore the discomfort twitching beneath my skin. "The next time I feel like I'm a talkative mood, you'll be the first to know Ames," I tease and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"You? Talkative? Might as well wait for Glenn to grow out of his awkward phase."

I shove at her playfully and she laughs as we begin to walk again, arm in arm. For the next few minutes, Amy chatters on about nothing and I find myself nodding and responding occasionally, perpetually smiling. The longer she talks I find myself grinning harder and longer, a warmth spreading in my chest because…for all the ups and downs we've experienced in the last few weeks, Amy is really my friend, wholly and truly. She's been there to just get me through the day; she's been there when I took up Carl and Sophia's education; she was there when I just wanted to stab Daryl and she was there to patch me up when his brother tried to kill me. I wish my life wasn't so complicated, that I could just be normal and tell her about inconsequential things like school or my home before. I want to connect with her on that level because even if she doesn't know it, Amy's the one that really welcomed me into this group, that really began to make me feel a part of them.

She's the one that made me feel human again when I had felt stripped down to nothing but the instinct to survive.

I think about her present, the small box tucked under my sleeping bag and the gift nestled inside. I think about it's meaning, about Amy herself, and I think that, maybe, just maybe, I'll have the strength soon enough to tell her about my past.

But that moment's not now. Now, the two of us are cresting the hill and coming upon Jim and his audience. Now, the warmth in my chest starts to fade and I remember why we came up here in the first place. Irrationally, a part of me just wants to pull Amy down the hill and walk away from all of this. But already Shane's voice is reaching me, quiet yet firm, and I can't help but stay rooted to my spot, listening intently.

"We think that you need to take a break ok?" Shane says. He's about ten yards from where Amy and I are standing, at the front of the group and walking slowly towards Jim. The other man is drenched in sweat, his white undershirt streaked with dirt and the button down he has thrown over it clings damply to his skin. Even with the cap jammed on his head, there's a red streak of sunburn across the bridge of his nose, snaking in angry tendrils down his neck. Amy and I might be a small distance away, but there's no mistaking the exhausted glaze to Jim's eyes or the way he sways on his feet.

"Why don't you go and get yourself some shade Jim? Some food maybe. You know, I'll tell you what. Maybe in a little bit I'll come out here and help you myself," Shane prods again, his tone coaxing but worried. His shoulders are tense and the rest of the group shifts anxiously as Jim continues digging, ignoring Shane's words. My eyes stray from Jim's moving form to the ground surrounding him. The grass and dirt is disheveled and there looks to be the beginnings of several holes scattered about. None of them are deeper than about two feet but the dirt is hard and packed tight, rocks every few inches. Jim must have been up here for the better part of the morning, digging away. The question is **why?**

"_Jim."_

The other man finally pauses, stabbing the shovel into a pile of loose dirt and leaning against it. Shane relaxes when he sees he has Jim's attention. His shoulders unhitch a little and he drags a hand through the damp curls on top of his head.

"Can you just…tell me what this is about?" When no answer is forthcoming, and Jim drops his eyes and goes to start digging again, Shane sighs.

"Why don't you just go ahead and give me that shovel Jim so we can talk about this?"

"Or _what?_"

I start at the older man's tone. It's hard and sharp, a caustic bark as he glares at Shane. I'm confused at his attitude and by the way Amy shifts uneasily next to me, I can tell she is too.

Shane huffs in disbelief. "There is no _or what. _Jim, I'm asking you. I'm coming to you and I'm asking you, _please." _

The former cop's actually entreating with Jim here and I have to give him credit. He's being quiet and calm, not anything like he was when he and I were arguing. Maybe he's learned some tact.

"I don't want to have to take it from you."

Then again, maybe he hasn't.

Wincing at Shane's thinly veiled ultimatum, I turn my attention back to Jim. He still looks on the verge of keeling over, eyes blinking slowly then too rapidly, but now he also looks pissed. His lip curls and sneers at Shane. "And if I don't then what? Then you're gonna beat my face in like Ed Peletier, aren't you?"

The air goes electric and tense, everyone suddenly rigid. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carol, who I hadn't noticed before, pull her daughter closer as she flinches. Her eyes are still red rimmed, her cheeks blotchy, and there's a steadily darkening bruise on her jaw. Shane drops his head and rubs at the back of his neck, seemingly guilty and at a loss for words. Jim's sneer deepens and he lifts his head to address the rest of us.

"Y'all seen his face huh? What's left of it," he shouts before he turns back to Shane. I don't know what's gotten into the older man; he's usually so quiet and reserved, kind. Now, he's all sharp edges and biting words. "See that's what happens when somebody crosses _you._"

I open my mouth to say something, because even if Shane and I don't see eye to eye on everything, he isn't like _Ed. _However, Shane beats me to the punch, no pun intended.

"That was different Jim," he says and that cajoling tone is gone now, replaced by a tinge of anger. The other man snorts.

Suddenly, Amy moves away from me and I snap my head to the side just in time to catch her ardent profile before she's standing several steps ahead. "You weren't there," she says loudly. Her body's shaking and her voice is thin and reedy. "Ed was out of control! He was hurting his wife!"

A few people hum and murmur with agreement but Jim is having none of it. He stabs his shovel in the ground angrily and straightens up with a snap. His face is contorted in a scowl and the expression looks completely alien on the normally genial man's face. What the hell is wrong with him?

"That's _their _marriage! That is _not _his!" he shouts, stabbing a finger at Shane. "He is not judge and jury! Who voted you king boss, huh?!"

Shane flinches under Jim's intensity and the crazed man looks ready to tear into the former cop some more. Shane doesn't let him start.

"Jim," he sighs. He doesn't seem angry anymore, just tired. "I'm not here to argue with you, all right? Just give me the shovel." He reaches out for the tool, slowly and easily but Jim twists away from him sharply.

"No!" he shouts. "No, no, no, no, _no!_" He keeps stepping back, away from Shane, but Shane matches him step for step, still trying to grab the shovel. Jim's voice is high pitched and bordering on hysteric and his movements are frantic. I realize he's suffering from heat stroke, or hell maybe just a stroke, and suddenly I feel worried for instead of annoyed at the older man.

"Jim! Just give me the—"

Shane gets shoved back harshly for his attempts and, all of the sudden, Jim's swinging the shovel at his head. I gasp, nearly stuttering forward as the rusted metal nearly slams into the side of Shane's face, but the former cop ducks at the last second, honed reflexes and instinct. He lunges for Jim once the shovel has passed him and the two men go tumbling into the dirt. All around me, people are gasping and talking frantically, worried and on edge. Above the murmured din, Jim is crying out in distress.

"You got no right!" he keeps repeating, words muffled by the dirt that Shane has him pressed into. "You go no right!"

Shane is shushing him as best he can, trying to be gentle as he wrests Jim's arms behind his back. He's murmuring for Jim to calm down, to be quiet, to take deep breaths. The other man isn't listening though. He's bucking in the dirt and trying to throw Shane off. He's whimpering and cursing and Shane has to press down on him harder so he doesn't hurt himself.

"Jim! Nobody is going to hurt you! All right? You hear me? Shh. Just relax. Nobody is going to hurt you." Shane keeps saying that last line over and over, a promise, and Jim eventually stops struggling. The rest of us watch in silence as the pinned man digs his face into the dirt and cries, half chocked sobs and tears mixing with sweat on his cheeks. A few feet to my right, Sophia and Carl press tightly to their mother's sides and as I take in their frightened faces, I distantly think I should have offered to stay at camp with the kids, just so they didn't have to see this.

"That's a lie," Jim moans and as I turn my attention back to him, my heart twists a little at the way he sounds so lost and broken. "That's the biggest lie there is." Shane doesn't respond, just starts to shift back on Jim's legs and when I hear the rattle of metal, I realize he's cuffing Jim's hands. Jim doesn't fight it. "A lie, a lie, such a lie. I told that to my wife and two boys. I said it a hundred times. It didn't matter."

The tightness in my chest winds tighter as Jim's voice grows thicker, revealing things, personal things that he never would have if he were in the right frame of mind. Whatever had forced Jim up here and forced him to dig these holes was obviously something so profound, its drove him to an emotional breakdown and hysteria. I feel bad for him and I realize Dale had every right to be as concerned as he was.

"They came out of nowhere. There were dozens of 'em," he continues with a whimper. "Just pulled 'em right out of my hands. My lies didn't matter; they were gone before I could try and save them." His words are quiet and broken and suddenly the ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, the air sucked out of my lungs before I know what is happening. I blink and my ears ring, my vision swims, a shudder worms down my spine. Something at the back of my mind is suddenly screaming _getawaygetawaydontlisten _because I know, like a bolt of lightning, even before he can take his next breath, what Jim is going to say. He continues before I can even think to escape.

"You know," he says and his gaze abruptly finds mine, between Lori and Shane's shoulders, around Dale, through Morales; his eyes lock onto my own like he can see straight through me. I remember the unease I felt coming up here and I know now I should have listened to it. "The only reason I got away was cause the dead were too busy eating my family. I…I can still hear their screams."

Amy makes a chocked noise beside me, her hands flying over her mouth in horror. In front of me, I can see Lori do the same. Everyone is horrified at Jim's confession; I can dimly hear Andrea say something to her sister, having fallen back beside us. But the words don't make sense; I can't process them. My head is pounding and I feel unexpectedly weak, my injuries finally catching up to me, a taste like cotton in the back of my mouth. I stumble without meaning to, careening into Amy's side. Hands are on me, voices at my ear, but I can't tear my eyes away from Jim, pressed into the dirt with tears on his cheeks and the ghosts of his family in his eyes.

"_They came out of nowhere. There were dozens of 'em. Just pulled 'em right out of my hands."_

My throat feels tight and I have trouble breathing.

"_You know, the only reason I got away was cause the dead were too busy eating my family."_

Fire flares before my eyes and I feel its heat against my skin, the moan of the dead rattling in my ears.

"_Mom?! Irina! Manny, where are you?!"_

"_Audrey you have to go. Go! It's too late. I'll do my best to find them but you have to go!"_

"_**I…I can still hear their screams."**_

"_Please Audie. Please don't let me die. Don't let them take me. Please Audie. PLEASE!"_

Blackness encroaches upon my vision and I feel myself falling. As I sink into oblivion, I hear Amy calling my name, frantic and worried. I try to tell her something, I try to stay awake, but I'm dragged down and away, Jim's voice cycling in my head, over and over: his family, his life, his story…

All exactly like mine.

* * *

><p>Daryl entertains the idea of beatin the little spic kid. He's the one that brought his damn 'homies' on them; he's the reason they're fucked six ways from Sunday. Daryl knows it won't help them any but he thinks it'll make him feel better. At least a little bit. However, as he paces the small room they're in, a back office of a body shop not far from where the bastards have Chinaman locked up, he can't do it. Mostly cuz T-dog's situated himself slightly in front of the kid but also cuz Daryl unfortunately has other things to preoccupy his mind.<p>

Like the fact that Grimes has hauled the bag of guns that got them into this mess onto the table, sortin through them one by one, as if to catalogue them. Daryl scowls at the sight and at the man's stupidity.

"Them guns worth more than gold," he finds himself pointin out. He can't believe that he has to say this shit out loud cuz _really, _how idiotic can people be? "Gold won't protect your family or put food on the table."

Gold can't keep you safe is what he doesn't say. But guns can; guns _will _if ya know how to use 'em. The survivalist part of Daryl balks at the idea of giving up so many weapons—six shotguns, two high-powered rifles, over a dozen handguns—for anyone less than family. He gets that the chink was a part of their group and that he's useful and the former cop feels responsible for him. But Daryl remembers how that geek was so close to camp and thinks that twenty more loaded guns are a lot more valuable than some Asian kid. The thought is callous and cruel, would make Merle proud, but Daryl's tryin to think practical here, tryin to figure what's gonna keep them all alive. He tells himself that he's gotta do what he has to and tries to ignore the guilt that jack knifes in his chest when hurt green eyes flash across his mind.

Pushin away all other thoughts, Daryl jerks his chin at the cache of weapons splayed out before them as he catches Grimes' eye. "You willing to give all that up for some kid?"

He still feels like a bastard for sayin those words.

Grimes ignores him, settles for loadin a handgun. Off to the side, T-Dog sighs and says, "If I knew we'd get Glenn back, I might agree with you. But you think that vato across the way is just gonna hand him over, nice and easy?"

"You callin G a liar?" the spic on the floor suddenly speaks up, indignant and pissed. Daryl growls and can't help himself from stalkin forward and slappin the kid across the head, knuckles connectin sharply with his skull.

"Ya best shut the hell up if ya wanna hold on to yer teeth!" Daryl crowds in close but the spic turns his head, nostrils flared and neck pulled taunt. Fear oozes out of him like sweat and Daryl thinks it's bout damn time. Seems like he's not feelin so invincible now that his little homies don't got his back. Daryl feels smug as he pulls back and he pointedly ignores the guarded, wary look T-Dog throws him.

"Question is," the darker man asks, adressin Grimes but eyes still on Daryl. "Do you trust that man's word?"

Daryl can't help but scoff. "Trust him? No. The question is what are ya willin to bet on it? Could be more than them guns. Could be your life. Ya willin to risk that?" he asks bluntly. Grimes purses his lips and averts his eyes, fiddlin with the gun in his hand. He's avoidin the question and wastin time. Daryl exhales sharply and raps on the table they've got between them, forcin Grimes to meet his gaze. "Chinaman worth that to you?"

That's the real question they've all been afraid to ask. That's what it all boils down to. They've got the guns. With them, they can travel through Atlanta and find Merle, wherever the dumb ass is hidin, and head back to camp, armed up to the teeth and ready for whatever may come. They could do that…but Grimes won't go through with it. Daryl can see it in the set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. He ain't bout to abandon the chink, even if it means their life. Daryl finds the man equal parts noble and idiotic; he's got the morals of a saint but the survival instinct of a moron. He's known Chinaman for less than a day and yet here he is, willin to be a martyr. It's amazin.

Grimes considers Daryl for a moment, chewy on his words. When they finally come out, they're iron clad and resolved. "What life I have I owe to him. I was nobody to Glenn, just some idiot stuck in a tank. He could have walked away, but he didn't." He purposefully slams one last bullet in the chamber of his revolver and stuffs it into the holster on his hip. The light in his eyes is burnin bright as hell and there's no doubt or hesitation as he says, "And neither will I."

"So yer gonna just hand the guns over." It's not a question. Daryl knows the answer.

Grimes almost smirks but there's a sharp edge to it, serrated and wild. "I never said that," he drawls. He meets Daryl's eyes over the table and the impact of those words finally hits the hunter. The former cop is serious and sincere. He ain't bout to leave the city without Chinaman…and it looks that he's willin to die fightin. Grimes looks between Daryl and T-Dog, face creased in contemplation.

"There's nothing keeping you two here," he says at length. "You should get out, head back to camp."

Disbelief rolls through Daryl and he scoffs again but it's T-Dog that finds his voice first. "And tell your family what?" he asks sarcastically, rubbin a tired hand across the sweaty skin of his bald head. Grimes blinks like he's shocked by the other man's words, but he nods after a silent moment when he sees that T-Dog is serious. Then, he turns to Daryl.

He doesn't ask the question, he doesn't say a word. But Daryl can see it plain as day in his eyes. _What about you? _

And what about Daryl? This ain't his fight. Chinaman ain't kin. But Merle is and he's out there, somewhere in the city. Daryl has to find him. Merle's his brother, family. Even without the guns, Daryl has to try. He doesn't need a chink, a nigger, or a former cop to help him. He's a Dixon; he knew how to take care of himself and his own. Leavin should be his only option.

Except it ain't.

Daryl could stay; he could help these idiots. The survivalist part of him down right refuses the notion. It's just gonna get him killed. However, if Daryl thinks about it, without Chinaman, their city guide, how far can he get in Atlanta before he runs into a dead end, full of graspin hands and snappin teeth? He couldn't just go round the city shoutin Merle's name. _That _was just gonna get him killed. But maybe…maybe if they can get the chink back, intimidate the other group into thinkin they ain't goin down without a fight…it's a half assed plan and Daryl can point out a million and one things wrong with it…but the more he thinks on it, the more he realizes it's their best shot.

And ain't that a kick in the fuckin teeth?

When Daryl nods at Grimes and reaches for a gun, sightin along the scope of a rifle, he tells himself he's doin this to find Merle, to save his own hide. He tells himself he has no other choice. But, in the back of his mind, he knows he does and he knows that he can't pick that option. Somethin in him won't allow it. And if that somethin is the same one that writhes at the thought of green eyes and bruised skin and a wide, friendly, trustin smile well…he don't gotta admit it.

They load the guns silently. Daryl chooses a high-powered rifle as his primary weapon and stows an extra handgun in the small of his back, tucked into his waistband. The rifle don't feel as natural as his bow but Daryl's been 'round guns all his life. He's a country boy. He could shoot a gun before he even started school. The metal and wood finish is heavy in his hands and powerful. It's a deadly instrument and Daryl knows how to be lethal with it.

T-Dog handles the other rifle and Grimes snags one of the shotguns. They also stow secondary weapons—T-Dog in the front of his jeans, Grimes in the holster at his hip—and then, they're ready. Grimes slings the rest of the guns over his back, zippered shut and clenched tight around his person, and his eyes are hard, lips a thin line. Daryl feels like every nerve in his body is a live wire and he wonders if this is the adrenaline high before the crash and burn. He hopes it ain't.

When they're all packed up, Daryl grabs the spic and ties a grease stained rag that's lyin across the desk round his mouth. The smaller man tries to fight him, gaggin slightly as the smell of gasoline engulfs his nose, but Daryl cinches the makeshift gag tightly and doesn't spare him a second glance. Grimes doesn't even glare at him in reprimand so the hunter guesses he's done with carin. Good. Maybe they might get through this after all.

As they approach the door of the auto shop, Grimes gives them one last chance to bail, one last chance to step away with their lives. Daryl just rolls his eyes and shoves the gagged kid out the door, not botherin to check if the others are followin him cuz he knows they are.

When they arrive, no one walks out to meet them; the doors just open. Daryl shoves the kid into the darkened space first, gun trained on his back, and the two vatos that hold open the big, metal doors snarl and scowl at him. He sneers right back, even with blood roarin in his ears and his heart beatin a tattoo against the inside of his chest.

The tattoo quickly becomes a brand when Daryl sees how many armed men had been lurkin in the shadows the last time.

There's at least twenty of 'em, all with a weapon in hand. They look pissed and hard-edged, ready to squeeze a bullet straight through Daryl's brow without battin an eye. The hunter swallows harshly and tightens his grip on the rifle, sweat makin his palms slick. He doesn't shake though. He won't give these sumbitches the satisfaction.

Guillermo steps up as the doors slam shut behind them, his men partin to let him through. He stops in front of Grimes who's takin the front position, scowl affixed on his lips. "I see my guns but they're not all in the bag," he says and he doesn't seem happy bout it.

Daryl wants to tell him they've all been disappointed today.

Grimes keeps his gun trained on the other man, shoulders a strong, tensed line. His hand doesn't shake either and Daryl commends him for it. "That's because they're not yours," he returns. "I thought I mentioned that."

The bald man that Daryl shot in the ass suddenly makes himself known, slidin up beside his boss with his eyes pinned on Daryl. "Let's just shoot these fools right now, ese. All right? Unload on their asses!" Daryl shifts the aim of his gun from the spic kid to the bald asshole, bullet poised to go right through his crooked teeth.

The other man seems to consider his comrade's words cuz he looks at Grimes with a wicked glint in his eye. He almost mocks them when he says, "I don't think you fully appreciate the _gravity _of the situation."

The gagged spic whines in distress but no one pays him any mind. Far more important things are occurin and Daryl's always known the kid never really mattered to the other men, even if he was bald guy's kin. He knew it from the fact that they even let the kid go again, no matter if guns or more weapons were at stake. These men were survivalists and they're prepared to fight to the last.

Grimes and Guillermo exchange some heated words but Daryl ain't listenin. He's got his eyes bouncin from man to man, gun to gun, not even flinchin when Grimes cuts the spic kids binds and pushes him towards his homies. This was all part of the "plan" after all: a man for a man. Daryl thinks the plans a piece of shit now that he's starin down at least ten barrels.

But when Grimes finally snarls out, "No, my hearing's fine. You said come locked and loaded and well…we're here," right before he cocks his shotgun, Daryl follows suit without hesitation, listenin to T-Dog do the same, finger on the trigger, ready to go at the drop of a pin. These men were survivalists, prepared to fight to the last but what these vatos didn't realize was…

So were they.

Grimes has his gun inches from the lead spic's face and the darker man has a stiff upper lip even though he's starin death in the eye. His men are scramblin behind his back, raisin guns and grabbin bats, startin forward to protect their boss. Daryl levels his rifle at the bald son of a bitch when he tries to push his way between Grime's gun and his leader and gets a snarl in return.

The two opposin sides square off for a breathless moment and Daryl's waitin for war to break out. There's only three of them but Daryl ain't no novice in fightin and Grimes is a cop. They might be able to hold out for a few minutes but suddenly Daryl knows this was an idiot idea to even entertain. They ain't walkin away from this. Not with Chinaman, not with the guns. They're gonna die here, any second now, just as soon as someone pulls the first—

"Felipe!"

Everyone starts at the feeble shout.

"Felipe!"

Daryl frantically searches for the source but he doesn't miss how the bald man's face goes white and then green, honest to god fear finally makin an appearance in his eyes. He leaves Guillermo's side but doesn't turn his back on Daryl's gun, just shuffles backwards as he waves his hand frantically. "Abuela, go back with the others! Now!" he calls out urgently and Daryl has just enough time to wonder what the fuck he's talkin bout before a little fuckin old lady suddenly comes into view.

She's small as fuck, not reachin the bald man's shoulder. Dressed in a white house robe, she shuffles slowly forward on slippered feet, her aged face distressed and confused. Her misty eyes take in all the guns and she unknowingly steps in front of the bald man, right into Daryl's sights.

"Get that old lady out of the line of fire!" he grinds out, cuz even if he's gonna kill these motherfucker's, he ain't bout to axe an old lady. What the hell is she doin here anyway? These sons of bitches kidnappin geriatrics now too?!

Guillermo steps back off the end of Grimes' gun and half turns to the small woman. "Abuela," he says, maybe her name. "Listen to your m'hijo, okay? This is not the place for you right now." His tone is just as firm as it had been before but it's lost its edge, no longer furious but merely worried. Daryl thinks he hears the beginnins of a plea somewhere in there.

The old lady ignores him though, instead turnin to the bald fuck behind her. "Mr. Gilbert," she gasps, her accent thick and liltin. "He's having trouble breathing. He needs his asthma stuff. Carlito didn't find it. He needs his medicine. Por favor mi hijo. Por favor." (1)

Daryl doesn't understand what the fuck is goin on anyone. What the hell is this broad talkin bout? Medicine and asthma and some dude named Mr. Gilbert? This…this was a fuckin stand off!

Guillermo though seems to take this shit in stride, snappin for the bald guy, Felipe, to go and handle whatever was happenin and to take his grandmother with him. However, as he tries to lead his grandmother away, she suddenly seems to take notice of Daryl and the rest of them. Her brow creases in confusion though, not fear, as she points at Grimes.

"Who…who are these men?" she asks, takin a step forward. The bald man, her grandson apparently, mutters to her urgently in Spanish but she ain't listenin, stridin forward till she's nearly up in Grimes' face. Daryl has to admit, even if he's thrown for a loop now, this old bitch has some balls.

"Don't you take him," she actually scolds, waggin a finger at Grimes like he's a kid getting chastised. The cop is just as confused as Daryl.

"M…ma'am?"

Though he does have better manners about it.

"Felipe's a good boy!" she continues like she hadn't heard him. And hell, maybe she hadn't. "He have his trouble but he pull himself together. We need him here officer. Por favor."

Grimes get what she's sayin just as Daryl does and, despite the situation, he manages a tired laugh. "Ma'am, I'm not here to arrest your grandson."

"Then what do you want him for?"

"He's…helping us find a missing person," he tells her, bendin the truth just a little. Daryl stares at his profile with incredibility, T-Dog meetin his eyes with the same expression. Where the hell was this goin? "A fella named Glenn."

A spark of recognition actually flares in the old woman's eyes and she smiles. "The Asian boy? He's with Mr. Gilbert. Come." She reaches out and takes Grimes' hand, the former cop havin lowered his shot gun. "Come, I show you." She pulls him forward and everyone tenses for a moment but no one's gonna start shit with this little old lady around. Daryl can see that when Guillermo exhales harshly and growls out to let them pass. The hunter doesn't understand what the fuck had just happened but all he knew was that he's bullet free and has all his blood remains in his veins. For now at least. Still, as the old woman guides Grimes out of the garage they seem to be in, Daryl and T-Dog hot on their heels with a score of armed vatos behind them, the hunter will be damned if he doesn't keep his rifle locked and loaded.

#

A goddamn old folk's home.

Daryl can't fuckin believe it. Here he was expectin some group of hardened gangsters, out for blood and nothin else, and they're caretakers of the elderly. If it weren't for all the silver haired, wrinkled people in wheel chairs scattered throughout the buildin, thin and somewhat frail but as healthy as could be expected, he wouldn't have believed it for a second.

Chinaman's apparently fine. There's that small gash on his brow, dried blood in his hair and on his temple, but he says that's from when he was first pushed in the car, when all the geeks were scramblin after him. Other than that, he's fit as a fiddle, the way he puts it. The vatos scared him a bit, mostly to keep up appearances, but once they stuck him with the old people, he was treated fine. Daryl waits for someone to jump out and say _April Fools _right before shootin them in the head cuz there ain't no way they're this lucky.

Except, apparently, they are.

Guillermo and Grimes talk. About how the vatos just try to keep this place safe, keep it fortified and stocked, just to survive a little longer. How they've had to defend themselves against those that would do harm in the past. How, through quick assumptions and first impressions, they thought Grimes and the rest of them were just the same.

Yeah well, Daryl's got a few bruised ribs and a black eye to prove that he wasn't expectin no Good fuckin Samaritans. (2)

Grimes says as much but in a much kinder way and the two men seem to come to a mutal understandin and forgiveness. Which Daryl doesn't really give a shit 'bout now cuz they've got Chinaman, and the guns, and Merle still needed to be found. He wanted to just cut the shit and get the hell outta Dodge 'fore the sun went and set on them.

But then, Grimes goes and gives half their guns and ammo away. Just like that. No preamble, no negotiations. He just hands them over. Daryl balks at the other man but he leaves no room for discussion and the hunter just sits back and stews in aggravated disbelief. They all risk their lives to get those fuckin weapons, Chinaman gets kidnapped, they waste almost a whole day in the city…and he's just gonna hand them out like candy.

Daryl really just hates stupid city folk.

They leave not long after that. Guillermo wishes them luck and Grimes does the same. Daryl just walks out and waits in the courtyard for everyone to just grow a pair and get a move on. The chink's the first to join him a few minutes later. He doesn't say anythin at first, just sidles up a few feet away from Daryl and gives him a small nod. Daryl rolls his eyes at the motion and cracks his neck, squintin up at the sky and tryin to gauge how much time they've got left before dark. However, only a few moments pass in silence before Chinaman's clearin his throat and Daryl can't help but think _goddamn it. _

"Thank you."

The two quiet words actually catch Daryl off guard and he finds himself turnin to the chink before he can help himself.

"What?"

The younger man won't meet his eyes. He fidgets in place, kickin at dirt and playin with the brim of his hat. His fingers absentmindedly go to the dried blood on his temple and he flinches. Daryl stares at him through it all.

"I…I just wanted to say thank you," Chinaman tries again, voice not that much stronger. "For coming back for me. You didn't have to do that."

Daryl blinks for a moment, thrown for a loop by the chink's gratitude, but then he snorts and looks away, pickin at the skin round his cuticles. "Don't thank me. It was Grimes' idea."

"Yeah," the other man drawls out and in his peripherals, Daryl sees the chink look at him straight on. "But _you _didn't have to come with him. So…thank you."

Daryl doesn't respond, doesn't have the chance to even if he could find the words. T-Dog and Grimes are makin their way across the courtyard, Guillermo standin in the doorway of his garage, watchin them depart. The two men stride with purpose, _finally, _and they're quickly drawin closer. However, right before they get within hearin range, the chink says one last thing. It's quiet and Daryl nearly misses it but…Chinaman says it just loud enough for him to hear.

"I guess Audrey was right about you after all. You aren't as bad as you seem."

The words are outta left field and Daryl has no way to brace for them. They bowl him over and send him reelin, make that traitorous guilt in him rear up again. The kid…the kid said that…about him? He doesn't understand it; thinks maybe the chink was mockin him. But there's a sincerity to the words and Chinaman can't lie for shit anyway so…so Daryl doesn't know. He knows, fictitious or not, he doesn't deserve the words. After all that shit with the kid and Merle, on top of all that crap, he had actually considered, for however brief a time, leavin the chink behind. He ain't no hero. He ain't noble or any of that shit. Daryl's fucked up and a callous bastard, has known that for a long time. He ain't so disillusioned to think otherwise.

Still…though he'd deny it unto his dyin breath, Chinaman's statement makes somethin preen in Daryl's chest, small and unseen but still there. It puts the hunter in a better mood, though he would never admit that either. Even as they search for another hour and a half for his brother, all dead ends and nothin but walkers, they don't find Merle's body and they don't find a walker in his shape so Daryl's still holdin out for hope.

When they find the truck gone, though, Daryl realizes hope is for suckers and that his brother, one handed and left for dead, is gonna bring one hell of a vengeance back to camp.

And Daryl wants to spit Chinaman's words back in his face. He ain't nothin good, he ain't no savin grace, and when they get back to camp…he knows that, without a doubt, he's gonna side with his brother, no matter what Merle's done.

Because he has to. Because Merle's kin. Because…Daryl doesn't know anythin else and even if Audrey asks him to, not that he wants to but even if he did…

He wouldn't know how to say yes.

* * *

><p>I wake up with my head pounding and my tongue like some dead thing in my mouth. My limbs ache and there's a horrible crick in my neck and I just about shit myself because there is someone leaning over me, inches from my face.<p>

"Mother fu—" I gasp out, trying to scramble away. I don't get very far before the spinning of my head stops me, nausea roiling in my gut. Oh shit. I think I'm gonna be sick.

Suddenly, there are hands on my shoulders, crawling up my neck to tangle in my hair. They tug at me and pull me back down to the thin material of my sleeping bag. I struggle for a moment, half heartedly, before Amy's voice registers in my head.

"Dree take it easy! It's just me!"

Groaning, I crack open my eyes just a little bit, staring hazily at the grey ceiling of what I realize is my tent. Amy's disembodied head floats in my line of vision and I feel the barely there tickles as the ends of her hair trail along my jaw and cheeks.

"A…Amy," I manage to slur out. God my mouth tastes disgusting, like blood and decay or something. "Wh…what—?" I can't get the rest of the question out, the words won't come, but Amy apparently understands.

"You fainted," comes the response. "Up…up on the hill. Remember?"

I shake my head slowly, my eyes falling shut again. My head is splitting in two. I'm pretty sure all my memories and the higher functioning parts of my brain are spilled out across my sleeping bag. Amy sighs somewhere above me and then I feel her fingers fumbling against my jaw, dropping down to cup the back of my neck and try to draw me up. I protest the movement with a whine, trying to shove her away feebly with my left hand but I lack any coordination and my arm just flops uselessly back to my side.

"Come one Dree. You need some fluids. Just take a few sips of water and you can lay down again," Amy coaxes. Warm plastic is suddenly pressed to my lips and I can do nothing but swallow when tepid water is poured down my throat. The slightly gritty water washes away the foul taste in my mouth and it isn't until I'm sucking at air, having emptied the canteen or water bottle, that I realize I was parched. I draw my tongue across the dry skin of my lower lip to catch any stray droplets of water. When I find none, I collapse back onto my sleeping bag with another whine.

A quiet chuckle reaches my ears and I half-heartedly squint open my eyes. Amy's face is still fuzzy but I think she's smiling down at me. "Jeeze," she says at length. "First you don't want water. Now you want more. Make up your mind Dree."

If I had the energy, I'd roll my eyes and flip her off. As it is, I settle for a weak, "Shut up."

Amy laughs again but the noise is shorter and ends with her fingers combing through the tangled knots of my hair. I wrinkle my noise at the pulling sensation but don't shake her off. After a while, the motion actually becomes soothing and I find myself almost lulled back to sleep, the throbbing in my head easing down to a dull pulse.

Of course, that's when my brain finally decides to start firing again and makes me _remember. _

It's all discordant sounds and images. Dale's worried face. The walk up the hill. The sensation of heat and the ever-present sun. Amy's voice with no words. Jim, digging, digging, digging. A snatch of an argument. A desperate plea.

And then…the words. Jim's story. My story. All meshing and colliding in my head. The fires of Dalton. Jim's family: a wife and two sons. Mom, Irina, Manny, Sensei. Everyone's _dead. _

I must make some kind of wounded noise because Amy stops petting my hair, moving to lie her fingers against my cheek instead. Her voice is insistent as she calls to me and I ground myself in her words, forcing air into my lungs. It takes some effort but I pry open my eyes again and meet Amy's worried blue gaze.

For a moment, just an instant, I think her eyes flash amber and I have to swallow the bile in my throat.

"_Please Audie. Please don't let me die."_

"Are you ok?" she asks me frantically, eyes bouncing around my face. Her own visage is ashy, save for a small amount of sunburn on the curves of her cheeks. My gut response is _no. _No I'm not ok. I'm never going to be ok ever again. _None of us are. _But I stave off the hysterical response. Instead, I huff out a hoarse sounding laugh. I have to laugh. If not, I know I'll start crying.

"You know," I rasp out, clearing my throat and tasting blood. "I feel like that's all people say to me nowadays. I'm…I'm kind of missing conversations that don't start off with words that make it sound like I'm dying."

Amy's lip quivers and her eyes go lipid. "Well maybe you should stop scaring the shit out of all of us! You fainted Dree! I thought you had a stroke of something."

"Can we say I 'passed out'? Fainting makes me sound kind of wimpy."

I actually get a smack across the shoulder for that one.

"This isn't funny Dree," Amy says. She's scowling down at me now but there's some color back in her face. "You are really gonna give me a heart attack one of these days!"

I do my best to look sheepish; I do my best to smile. It's a little hard, though, with the pain in my body and the flashes of faces I don't want to remember playing like a perverse slideshow behind my eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I tell her though I can't even recall what I'm supposed to be sorry for now. "I'm a little out of it. I guess all my injuries and shit caught up with me."

Which isn't a lie. It's just not the whole truth. I'm starting to realize this is a bad habit of mine and I think about the severity of lying by omission.

Amy huffs and pouts and now that I'm more awake, I can see that she's sitting cross legged on the edge of my sleeping bag, arms folded in front of her chest. "Yeah well if you didn't force yourself to be all Wonder Woman this wouldn't happen so much," she grouses. She tries to sound reprimanding but comes across more as petulant, a sulky child instead of a stern mother. I roll my eyes slightly at her and try to think of a response but a sudden rustling behind her has me keeping silent.

The flap of my tent flutters for a moment and then parts to reveal my tent mate Abby's auburn hair. She doesn't notice the two of us for a moment, just ducts into the tent. However, when she straightens up into a standing position her eyes clash with mine and her jaw drops open a little. "Oh," she says quietly. "I…I didn't know you were awake."

Yeah well if it makes you feel any better, I don't _want _to be awake I think. I don't stay that though. What I do instead is push my self up into a half sitting position and manage a shaky smile. "I uh…just woke up," I tell her. My mind tacks on an _unfortunately _on the end of my statement. The other woman nods in acknowledgement and then goes about her business, sliding over to her side of the tent and rooting around the mess splayed across her bedroll.

Abby is an older woman, probably mid to late 30s. She's a little loud and hangs out with some other women in camp, Rebecca and others whose names I can't recall right now, but she's nice enough; in the month that I've known her and shared her tent, she's never given me any problems. That being said…she isn't exactly the cleanest roommate. Amy catches my eye after Abby's thrown yet another dirty sock over her shoulder and I shrug as if to say _what are you going to do? _Abby takes a few minutes to find whatever she is looking for, I'm not exactly sure what, and Amy and I just sit in uncomfortable silence until she's done. After fishing her treasure out of the trash in her corner of the tent, Abby flashes me a small smile as he goes to slip out of the flap. "Dinner's almost ready. Just thought you guys would want to know."

I nod in thanks, feeling more than a little awkward, and then she's gone.

Another seconds tick by in silence. Then Amy giggles and goes to say something but suddenly I'm processing Abby's words and I cut off my friend with a frown.

"Wait. It's _dinner_ already?"

Amy blinks at my abrupt question but takes it in stride. "Yeah," she says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Sun's almost down. We usually have dinner around this time."

I stick my tongue out at her, feeling a twinge from an old cut in my mouth. "Smart ass. It's not like I've been asleep or anything. I didn't know the time." But in hindsight, I guess I should have. The tent is a solid gray but at this moment it's tinted almost red, the dying light of the sun filtering weakly through the nylon. By the length of the shadows along the walls, across the floor, and the way I have to squint to see, I'm guessing it's almost nightfall. I've been unconscious for hours.

Hours...oh my god.

"Holy crap!" I whirl on Amy who stares at me with wide eyes. "It's sunset!"

"Uh…yeah I just said—"

"Are…are they back? Glenn and…and the rest of them I mean?"

That's kind of a stupid question though. Of course they're back. Darkness is almost here. The only reason they wouldn't be back is if…is if something went wrong. The thought makes me cold and I have to fight the wave of emotions and images that threaten to barrage me. Amber eyes and blood smeared mouths. The notion of Glenn dead or a walker. No…no. He's fine. They all are. I should have asked _when _they got back. I'm sure Glenn is worr—

"No. They aren't."

Amy's words stop my frantic thoughts. I turn to her with eyes frozen open and no air in my lungs. "What?"

The young blonde worries her lip and looks pained, afraid. I've seen that look too much on her recently. It makes my chest hurt. Or maybe that's due to the fact that I can't get my lungs to work again.

Picking up a stray t-shirt of mine, Amy starts to wring it in her hands. Her breathing is even and measured but I can see the anxiety in her eyes, in the way she's twitchy and fidgety. Holy crap. Holy crap, holy, crap, holy crap. "Glenn," Amy starts off slowly, breaking the news gently. "He isn't…none of them…they haven't come back yet." I inhale sharply and Amy must realize how I feel because she's quick to stutter out reassurances. "Bu…but I'm sure they're fine! They're probably on their way back now."

The hitch in Amy's voice says she doesn't believe her own words. That bubble of hysteria floats into the back of my throat again and I force my eyes closed, heave in a deep breath. It doesn't help. All I can think about is those thousands, millions, of walkers shambling around Atlanta and how Glenn and Rick and T-Dog and…Daryl could have just walked into a horde of them unknowingly. I think about how we narrowly escaped death last time; Glenn and Rick even more so since they went out onto the street alone, covered in geek guts. What if they ran into a similar situation again? Or what if someone got hurt; twisted an ankle like me?

What if Merle was so pissed off with being abandoned that he picked up where he left off? Imagining Glenn with my injuries makes me shudder. Glenn's awesome but…he isn't a fighter. Merle would kill him without breaking a sweat.

All of these 'what ifs' are making me dizzy again. I want to go back to sleep but despite the exhaustion vibrating in my bones, the only way I'm resting is if Amy clubs me over the head and rends we unconscious. Or I pass out from lack of oxygen. Jesus H Fuck. This day has been too much of a goddamn rollercoaster. First Daryl and then Ed, Jim and now Glenn. The men of this camp are trying to kill me. Sadly, that's not just a figure of speech. How am I even awake right now?

Right. Because sleep is too merciful.

"Fuck," I hiss, squeezing my eyes tightly shut before flinging them open. Amy meets my gaze with a grimace. "Ok…all right. Let's…let's just…" I scrub at my face harshly, reveling in the burn and stings to draw my thoughts into focus. "Let's just head out to the camp fire. We'll…we'll wait for them as we eat." I'll take this a step at a time. Eat first. Then worry. The possibly snag Shane's jeep and head into the city myself if too many hours pass with no contact. But yeah; dinner.

"Are you sure you just don't want to—?"

"No," I shake my head, not even letting her finish her sentence. I don't want to do anything other than to get up and get moving. I need to be in motion. I can't let these thoughts consume me. "I'm…it's fine. I'm actually pretty hungry. I think that's one of the reasons I passed out. I need some food in me." I pat my stomach for emphasis, trying to ignore the way it roils at the thought of ingesting anything. Keep moving. I just need to keep moving. Not waiting for Amy to argue, I try to heave myself off the ground, pressing my hand down onto my sleeping bag for leverage, but a sharp pain in the center of my palm has me yelping and falling back on my ass.

"Goddamn it." I massage my throbbing hand, glaring down at my sleeping bag.

"What's wrong?" Amy asks. I exhale sharply and inspect my hand. Save for a small red bloom, something that won't even bruise, I'm fine. Or, at least that part of me is.

"Nothing. I just pressed down on something. A rock I guess. I'm fine."

Amy doesn't seem very convinced and leans across me to stick her hand under my sleeping bag, rooting for the offending object that I've been apparently sleeping on. Which is actually kind of weird. I don't remember a rock being under there when I stuck Amy's—

Oh fuck.

"Shit! Amy hold on wa—!"

It's too late. Just as I reach out to snag her arm, she withdraws her hand with a small, black box clenched between her fingers. I close my eyes for a moment with my hand hanging in midair. I am an idiot. When I lift my head again, Amy looks bemused as she stares at the slightly crushed cube in her hand. She glances up at me and her eyes are bright with inquiry, a puzzled smile starting to form on her face.

"Dree? What's this?"

My cheeks flush and I rub tiredly at my non-swollen eye. "Trash?" I try but there's no real conviction in it. I know I've been caught and there's no way out of it. Amy fixes me with a droll look and starts to pry the lid off the box. I don't stop her.

The moment she sees what's nestled inside the cardboard container, Amy goes still. The smile actually freezes on her face and she looks startled. I wince at her reaction and try to explain. "It's your present," I say quietly, as if that wasn't obvious from the start. "When…in the city I messed up my ankle a little early on; before Merle. I was kind of forced to stay in the department store so I did a little shopping around. I know your birthday is tomorrow and while I can't throw some huge party for you…I wanted to get you a little something." Amy doesn't say anything in return. She just continues to stare and stare at the box, expression now disconcertingly blank. I fidget uncomfortably and start biting at the chapped skin on my lips. "It's not much," I blurt out eventually, feeling nervous now. In the city this had seemed like a good idea but now…now not so much. It seems stupid. Amy was expecting some huge party for her 18th birthday and a car. My gift looks idiotic in comparison. "I know that. And I'm sorry but…look if you don't like it you don't have to—"

"Audrey."

My jaw clicks shut at the sound of my name and I lapse into silence. Amy still doesn't look at me as she slowly draws the small object out of its box. Unable to look at her face, I turn my eyes to the gift in her hand. When I said it wasn't much, I wasn't lying. It's small and thin, able to fit in the palm of her hand. The bracelet itself is intricate: knots tied upon knots, all woven together, but there are no diamonds or gold. The only pieces of value to the trinket are the three charms woven into the band itself, bright silver gleaming in the muted light of the tent. (3) Amy touches the small pieces of metal, the tip of her finger tracing their shapes.

"Do you know what they mean?" she whispers and I do. They're the reason I chose this specific piece of jewelry. The pink color of the band was just icing on the cake my pain-addled brain had thought before. Now, I'm reluctant to say my reasoning out loud.

Still not looking at Amy's face, I reach out and point to the charm closest to me, the exotic lines of the symbol handsome even in my embarrassment. "The display said this one means friendship," I tell her. I point to the next charm, situated directly in the middle of the bracelet. The symbol is more intricate than the first one and the silver is warm beneath my fingertip. "And this one is trust." The last one makes me pause but I force myself to move my finger over it, clearing my throat before I reveal the last translation. "And this one…this one means family."

Amy inhales sharply beside me and I immediately start rambling again. "I…I thought it was kind of funny you know? I mean you're always calling me a ninja and whatever. So…the characters made me smile. And…and pink is your favorite color so I thought that was ok. The…the meanings…I know you and I have had our arguments but I do find…you _are_ my friend Amy and…I trust you. I do. I thought maybe this could show you but again if you don't like it—"

All of the sudden, Amy bursts out laughing and I cut myself off again, feeling my cheeks flare in mortification. But Amy doesn't mock me, doesn't throw the gift back in my face with scorn. Instead, she turns to me with a grin stretched from ear to ear as she sticks her wrist out at me. "Could you shut up for a second and help me get this on?" she asks and I blink at her in shock.

"I…wait what?"

Rolling her eyes, Amy grabs my left hand and between the two of us, we get the pink band tied securely around her left wrist, the vibrant string and silver shinning against her pale skin. "There," she says smugly, trailing her fingers over the hundreds of little knots woven into the band. Her grin has dimmed to a soft smile but it is no less genuine. "Perfect."

Unfortunately, I'm still left bewildered. I think I've earned the right though. I mean it's not like I've hit my head recently or anything. Or had my head hit…never mind.

"So…you like it?" I ask cautiously, still unsure.

Pale blue eyes find mine and there's a soft exasperation in them. "You thought I was going to hate it?"

Pursing my lips, I try to shrug and go for nonchalant. I know I fail miserably. "No. Well, it was a possibility. I…you weren't even supposed to get it till tomorrow! I had a whole day to think of what to tell you," I grumble petulantly.

I get a quiet giggle in return and then Amy is throwing her arms around me, careful of my more serious wounds. "I love it Dree, really. I…thank you," she whispers in my ear and I return the embrace as best I can, feeling something unwind in my chest. When she pulls away, I rub at the back of my neck, finding it hot and knowing it's glowing scarlet.

"Yeah well…I'm glad. I had to hope over a glass case for that you know. On one leg," I point out. "I worked hard for it."

Amy ignores my sarcasm and instead turns back to the bracelet. Her fingers are continually drawn to the stark silver points and she traces them as if they are gold. At length she says, "You picked this especially for the charms. Didn't you?" I don't really have to answer, it was a rhetorical question, but I find myself nodding anyway. Amy looks up at me and her eyes look a little watery. I flush again and hope that the loss of light in the tent masks the color.

"I wanted to give you something nice and…meaningful. You're my friend Amy and believe me when I say this, I haven't had many of them."

"The book thing made people think you were a nerd?" Amy says in mock seriousness and I shove her playfully.

"No! I was well-liked thank you very much. I just…didn't get too close with a lot of people is all," I shrug again. "That doesn't mean I don't want to try though" I chance a glance at her and coax myself into a tentative smile. I know I've lied to Amy, too much for far to long, the guilt weighs on me even now, but in this, right here, I am truthful. "I like you Amy and I think we can be great friends. Even better than we are now. That is, if you can get over my nerdy book thing."

Amy hums in contemplation, playing a finger against the fine tip of her chin. She looks up to the sky as if for guidance but I catch her eyes when it flickers down again and she breaks out into another grin. "I think I can suffer through," she giggles and pulls me into another hug. I clasp her tight again and feel my own lips twitch into a smile.

"Now the question is: can I suffer through you?"

I get another smack to the shoulder for my cheek and I burst out laughing, warding off soft blows from a faux indignant Amy.

My head still pounds steadily and there are ghosts circling a back drain of my mind; Glenn is still out there somewhere, possibly in danger, Merle might try to kill me if and when he returns and Daryl might let him.

But, as Amy rolls into the sleeping bag beside me, cheeks flushed with glee and blue eyes gleaming, I can't help but think today is not _all _that bad.

#

Although I'm not a real big fan of seafood, or I guess lake food, I have to say that the fish Amy and Andrea caught was damn good. Dale had some spices stuck in the back of the RV's cabinets—salt, pepper, garlic powder—not much but it was something and whatever Carol had done with those few condiments was akin to magic. The meal turned out absolutely delicious.

Even if I didn't touch the venison.

Amy had tried to coax me into taking a bite and I did pinch off the smallest piece, just to humor her, but I couldn't handle anymore. It tasted like ash on my tongue, acrid and gritty, nearly making me gag. Everyone else liked it fine, said the fawn was juicy and tender, millions of times better than the gamey squirrel we've been relying on for the past few days, praised _Simon _once again for such an amazing job, but…I couldn't do it. I didn't want to think of the implications as to why that was, but they were there all the same, whispering in the back of my mind, taunting me with blue eyes and harsh words and accusations I didn't even try to refute. It was irritating and more than a little taxing but the bottle of beer I snagged from Morales seemed to take the edges off. It was an impulsive decision and he didn't even notice. What's more, in the darkness, it looked like the root beer that was being passed around so no one glanced twice at me. I've had beer before, once or twice, and never cared for the taste or the notion of being drunk. But today had been a particularly trying day; fucking sue me for wanting to relax.

The beer's gone now, sadly, as is the food, but the after glow remains. I'm not anywhere in the realm of drunk, still a good distance away from tipsy, but I'm relaxed, lethargic. Amy's body is pressed into my right side and every time she laughs or giggles, it vibrates through me. Sometimes, I catch myself smiling for nothing more than the reason of listening to her regal some tale or seeing the flash of white as she smiles. Her good mood is contagious and everyone seems to be in a jovial mood. And why wouldn't we be? We have a warm fire at out feet, food in our bellies, beer, and the company of friends. All in all, it's a damn good night.

And it would be perfect if Glenn were here, warming my other side, sprawled at my feet. It would be perfect if Lori had her husband at her arm and not the worried frown that Shane only seems to exacerbate every time he looks at her in concern. Hell, it would even been perfect, or close enough to count, if Merle was sitting in front of his tent with Daryl, loud and talking shit again. Because that would mean they were _back; _that they were _safe. _But they're not; at least not yet. And underneath the shallow contentment that's been concocted in me, beer and the lulling warmth of fire, the soothing feeling of a full stomach, is this slowly churning terror. It's like a river of magma beneath the surface, hot as hellfire and all consuming. For now, it's held at bay, even though I can feel it shift under my skin. However, if they aren't back soon—and I mean _very fucking soon_—I'm going to explode. This isn't right; they should be back by now. The reasons why they aren't are infinite and each one is worse than it's predecessor. I'm going to drive myself insane.

When the conversation lulls, or any time my mind just wanders, I find myself praying. It's not something I do often, God's never before been interested in me, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And if it brings Glenn back that much sooner, I'm not going to let something as small as pride or stubbornness get in my way. My prayers are nothing fancy, nothing intricate. Just a small mantra; an ardent plea.

_Please. Bring Glenn and the rest of them back soon. Please, let them be safe and sound. Please, let nothing have gone horribly wrong. Please, bring them back soon. _

Over and over and over again until it's not even a conscious thought. I wonder, for a spare moment, if there's like a limit requirement for prayers in order for God to hear you. In personal experience, if there is, it's an unfathomable number because I prayed for five years once before and in the end, I had to save myself. But I can't do anything now; maybe God can see that. I hope He'll take that into consideration.

_Please, let them be safe and sound. Please, bring them back soon._

And, if he fucking doesn't, than I'll handle it myself, just like I always do. Even if I have one leg and one arm out of commission, I am not above hijacking a car and going to find them, alone if need be, come morning.

Somebody coughs to my left, pulling me from my half-cocked musings, and I turn instinctively at the noise, finding Jim suddenly in my line of sight. I go rigid with just a small glance but the man isn't looking at me. He's quiet once more, head bowed as he tucks slowly into his dinner. He meets no one's eyes and only a few glance in his direction, manly Lori and Shane, concern mixed with pity and wariness. His episode this afternoon seems to have mulled over and been nearly forgotten. Amy said that after I passed out, Shane actually tied him to a tree to make sure he calmed down completely and didn't hurt himself or anyone else. That seems a little much but Shane has a flair for the dramatic; I'm not exactly surprised. It apparently did some good though because Jim is himself again, reserved and well mannered.

That doesn't mean I can stand to look at him though. One small glimpse and I'm already dizzy again. It's not his fault; not really. But that doesn't change the fact that he hit way to fucking close to what used to be home; a home that's long gone and that I've done my very best not to think about because it's behind me, ashes and cinders, and I have to keep moving. Always moving, always forward. The taste of fire is in my mouth again but I don't think it has anything to do with the flames at my feet.

Thankfully, mercifully, Morales chooses this moment to clear his throat and speak up, successfully drawing my attention.

"Hey Dale," he says. The older man looks up at his name and everyone seems to tune into the conversation, curious. "I've got to ask you, man. It's been driving me crazy. That watch of yours…"

"What's wrong with my watch?" Dale laughs. There's a bemused smile above his beard, just as white as his hair, as he twists the leather band of the object in question. It's an antique piece from what I've seen up close, gold hands beneath a clear crystal. It's nice, really nice, probably a gift. I noticed because Dale's really the only one to wear a watch anymore, the only one to casually call out the times during the day, random and without prompting. Sadly, no one pays him much attention because the thing that no one ever tells you about the apocalypse is…time really begins to lose it's meaning after a while.

Before, time dictated everything. Certain hours and certain days meant certain things were being done in a very certain order. There were to-do lists and calendars and reminders for up coming events and deadlines. Days of the week meant school. Weekends meant homework and the odd end job here and there. Mornings were for getting ready; evenings were for winding down. Every second was spent thinking about the next one, what we were going to do, what we wanted to do, and what needed to get done.

Now, though, everything is different. It is not hours that measure time any more, even though many of us in camp still have watches and will use them at odd moments, never for long, not like Dale, clinging to a world where everything had a schedule, an allotted beginning and end. The truth of the matter is…it is the things that we do that calculate the passage of time now. It's the hunger in our bellies that tell us when breakfast, lunch, and dinner need to occur. It's the pile of soiled clothes that need to be cleaned that signal that it has been a while since we've trooped down to the quarry for a wash. It's Carl and Sophia's listless wandering that tells me that it's time for another English lesson or tells their mothers that it's time for some other subjects. It's the dwindling stock of supplies that tells us another run into Atlanta is needed. Time already is starting to seem an archaic notion when we are only looking to the next sunrise or set, the next chore, the next breath. But here Dale is, wrist baring an awkward tan line around the ban of his watch.

Morales shakes his head with a laugh and even in the flickering shadows, I can see the amusement in his dark orbs. "I see you," he says. "Every day, the same time winding that thing like a village priest saying mass. What's the deal?"

Dale still looks puzzled, absentmindedly stroking the glass face of the object, when Jacqui suddenly speaks up across the circle. "I've wondered this myself," she quips. "I just never said anything."

"I…I'm missing the point," Dale says. I can't help the small smile that flits across my lips when I realize he sounds a little put out, a smidge defensive.

"Unless I've misread the signs, the world seems to have come to an end. At least hit a speed bump for a good long while." Jacqui chuckles gently and, despite the seriousness of the words, her tone is light.

Morales picks up the conversation again by saying, "But there's _you _every day winding that stupid watch." There is no malice or mocking in his voice, merely a light teasing. Around the fire, everyone titters or giggles, and I vibrate with Amy's barely suppressed laughter.

Finally, Dale seems to stand up for himself. "Time—it's important to keep track of, isn't it? The days at least." My thoughts from before come to mind and I refrain from asking _why? _It's not like we have a deadline coming up; it's not like we need to _be _somewhere. People seem to share my mentality because several heads start to shake and Dale is left with silence and more laughter, no one to back him up. The older man huffs for a moment, stumped, but then there's this gleam to his eyes, like an epiphany, and I cock my head at it when he clears his throat to talk once more.

"I like what a father said to his son when he gave him a watch," he begins slowly, a rhythm to his voice like the beginnings of a song. "A watch that had been handed down through generations. He said, 'I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire, which will fit your individual needs no better than it did mine or my father's before me; I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you may forget it for a moment now and then and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it."

He finishes the quote with a flourish and a grin and I fell myself matching it, large enough that my cheeks hurt from nothing more than happiness, not bruises or cuts. I know that piece; in fact I have it written down in my journal. I never took Dale for a literary buff but it makes me like the genial old man a little bit more.

For a moment, there's silence as everyone soaks in Dale's profound words. Then, Amy inhales next to me.

"You are _so _weird," she says on the exhale and I turn to her with an indignant squawk on my tongue, shoving her lightly so she wobbles on the long we're sitting on. Laughter rises up again and this time, Dale accompanies it.

"It's not me. I was merely paraphrasing," he says. "It's—"

"Faulkner," I interject. Eyes turn to me in surprise but this time, I don't blush under the scrutiny. I merely continue to smile at Dale who seems impressed that I caught his reference. "William Faulkner. Brilliant author; one of my favorites."

Amy groans exaggeratedly and suddenly throws herself across my lap. "Oh god Dale," she whines, face pressed into my knees. "Don't get her started! It's too late for an English class!" I roll my eyes at her dramatics and shove her off with my good hand. She struggles a moment, almost falls to the ground, but gets herself righted next to me, pressed heavily into my side. Her hair is disheveled and off kilter and when her blue eyes peer out between fire highlighted, golden strands, the pale blue gaze is nothing short of mischievous and teasing. I poke my tongue out at her and she actually feigns to slap it, the pink ends of her bracelet twirling in the air and the fire making the silver charms seems molten. My eyes land on the symbol for _friend _and I smile gently, completely forgetting to pretend to be annoyed.

After the two of us play fight for a few minutes, Amy suddenly detangles herself and stands. I frown up in confusion at her, immediately feeling the loss of warmth against my side, but Andrea beats me to the question.

"Where are you going?" she asks and Amy scowls, her cheeks tinted pink as she shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

"I have to pee. Jeeze, you try to be discreet around here."

Giggling at my friend's affronted tone and her sister's chagrined expression, I toss a spare twig at Amy's back, smiling when she casts a mock glare over her shoulder. "Don't fall in!" I call. I get a _discreet _flash of the bird before she trudges her way up to the RV.

I shake my head at her and turn back around to face the fire. Carl catches my eyes over the flames and by the glint in his eye and the arch of his brow I know he saw Amy. I bring a finger up to my lips and wink at him. Catching my motion, the boy puts a hand over his mouth and giggles, ignoring the questioning look Lori sends his way.

Well…what Lori doesn't know can't hurt me right?

I'm just reaching over to grab another drink, a real root beer this time, when I hear the RV door slam open behind us and Amy's voice drifts across the night air. "We're out of toilet paper?" she whines and my brow furrows at the question. That's not right. I specifically remember Andrea and T-Dog bringing some back from the convenience store, strutting in like conquering heroes who found gold. Because toilet paper is worth a lot more than that now. No fucking lie. Glenn must have stored it in a different cupboard again. Amy's going to kick his ass when he gets back.

I'm just turning around to tell her to check underneath the sink cabinet when a blood curdling, high pitch scream tears the night in two. It makes my heart stop, it burns the air out of my lungs, it stops the world's very fucking turn. For a moment, just a moment, I have this half crazed, desperate, pleading notion forming in my brain that I am hearing things. When the scream repeats itself, I know I'm know.

By the time I'm on my feet and whirling in place, hands scrabbling for tanto, katana, my fucking heart, Amy's already pinned against the RV, a walker snarling in her face. Time grinds into a glacier's pace in the span of a millisecond, trapping me in burning ice along with it. There's no time to react; no time to breathe. The moon shines brightly from up above, full and heavy, God's very own spot light on the stage of my nightmare. I try to force my muscles to move, my brain to work, for time to start again and _let me go! _

I get none of my wishes. All I get is the world dropping out from under me the instant the geek's teeth sink into Amy's arm and all I can see is _redredscarlecrimsonred._

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><p><strong>(1) Spanish for: Please my son. Please.<strong>

**(2) In the Judo-Christian Bible, there is a parable about the "Good Samaritan"; a man who helped his supposed enemy out of the kindness of his heart.**

**(3) There are these things called Chinese knot bracelets. I thought they look pretty cool and even though jade charms are more the norm, I replaced them with silver :)**

**And cliffy. XD Sorry haha. **

**But what did you guys think? I had SO MUCH damn trouble with this chapter and I DON'T KNOW WHY! Ugh. I must have scrapped it like 50 billion times. -_-" And I'm still not very please with the result. But meh. Let me know what YOU think. You guys rocked with the reviews last chapter and I love you all for your continued support and general awesomeness! ^^**

******IMPORTANT NOTE***** Also, I have a question for you guys. Well more of a poll. I guess? Anyway. Would you prefer long chapters like I've been doing recently or short ones and a smaller lapse between updates? :/ I need some feedback on this so PLEASE LEAVE YOUR ANSWER IN A REVIEW!**

*********ANOTHER IMPORTANT NOTE******* Actually this is just more shameless promoting. But still please ****READ THIS.**** I've recently published another (yeah I know I'm sorry I'm obsessed) TWD oneshot. This one was done for a prompt over at the livejournal meme and is based on Rick/Shane's relationship centered on the last scene they have together. I.e. when Rick has to kill Shane. :/ It is slash but no explicit scenes. It's more based on the feelings between the men and their friendship through the years. If that's your cup of tea, please head on over and drop me a few words. I've gotten one review for it and I don't know if it just suuuuuucks or what. Please help me out here guys! I'll give you cookies :) And possibly insights and or leeway for suggestions in Audrey/Daryl's story here at The Bite of a Blade. ;) **

**Ok! I'm done blabbing! Next chapter starts off with some action and brings Daryl and Audrey back together ;D At least in the same physical vicinity. BUT you never know ;) **

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**


	21. I Am Human and I Will Let You Down

**Ok so after some deliberation, I've written a shorter chapter xD You guys didn't seem to mind much either way but this shorter piece worked better into my own personal time frame and the time frame of the story. :) Now, heads up, this chapter, as I just said, is shorter. It mainly focuses on one particular scene (kind of) but you'll get that as you read. There were many reasons for this, some being that I wanted to focus on the emotions of this particular scene and this chapter marks a type of...transition in Audrey's mindset and in her relationship with others, mainly Daryl. **

**But more on that next chapter ;)**

**Anyway! Hope you enjoy and PLEASE REMEMBER TO REVIEW! I love love LOVE hearing what you guys think and liked and what you didnt because it helps me improve this story and my writing overall. :) So please and thank you! ^^**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but this story and OC.**

**Warning: Language and gore. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 21: I Am Human and I Will Let You Down<strong>

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><p>"<em>AMY!"<em>

Something snaps in my throat, something breaks and shatters and rends in two. I taste blood; I become lightheaded. The night erupts into chaos around me and all I can see is my friend's arm, locked in the jaws of a walker.

"AMY!" I scream again and this time, I'm moving. My feet fumble, pain flares, but I force myself to jump the log I was previously sitting on, landing with a distant feeling of agony but not even fazed as I stutter forward. However, I don't get very far. Three steps away from the fire pit, another geek suddenly appears to my left, to my right, ten of them shuffling out from behind the RV. I stare at all of them in horror, frozen in place. Where did they come from? There's…there's so many. My mind races, counts, calculates, all in the span of a breath. It's like a horror movie; it's like Dalton all over again. Too many, too many, too many of them and not enough of us. We can't…I can't…there's nothing we can do against these numbers. We have almost no guns; we're five men down! Oh my god. Oh my _fucking god! _My brain loops that curse over and over again before it slams into the thought of_ What are we going to do?!_

_What the fuck are we going to d—?!_

"Mommy!"

Carl's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. He's cowering against Lori's side five feet to my left. His eyes are wide, face bathed in shadows and flickering with terror. His mother cries as she pulls him close and Shane tries to get between them and the walkers but they're everywhere: before, behind, and on all sides. The former cop circles like a rabid wolf, trying to protect its pack, firing at anything that moves with a snarl.

Fire burns through me and that's when I think _our _pack. Our group. This is _**our **_goddamn camp and…and I'm not about to let it fall to a couple of fucking dead bastards!

I don't know how it happens; I don't remember the movement. But suddenly, my katana is twirling in my left hand, steel length catching the reflection of dancing flames and giving the impression that the very blade has been set afire. The weight is familiar; as is the burning in my veins, and all the weariness, drowsiness, and pain fall away, shed weight. I'm light now, buoyant, quick and I sure as hell am fucking lethal. A walker shambles into my line of sight and bares its teeth at me. I snarl right back, noise inhuman, and set upon it like a wild animal. My blade cuts through the night air with untraceable speed and the geek's scalp and half its skull tumbles to my feet, gore splashing my ankles. The body hasn't even hit the ground before I'm darting to the side, setting in on my next target, no thought, no plan, just pure instinct and the need to _killsurvivekill._

In the back of my head, I had this plan to cut a straight path to the RV, images of blonde hair and blood accompanied by the mantra of Amy's name screaming at the base of my skull. But the night is too chaotic, too hellish. I try to keep straight and walkers come at me from left and right; a person screams behind me and I whirl around just in time to decapitate yet another head. I'm getting turned around and soon enough I don't know where I am. I'm just a blur of constant motion: swing, slice, hack, and repeat. The dirt's the same beneath my shoes, the fire casts shadows across the whole world, there are geeks wherever I turn and the screams of the frightened, of the dying, intermixed with gunshots and moans, plays like a soundtrack from hell through the hot summer air, digging down to my very bones. I'm cast adrift in this tempest with no land in sight.

I know it's only been a few moments since the walkers tore into camp but quickly it begins to feel like hours. I'm drenched in sweat, coated in blood, none of it my own thankfully. My arms grow leaden, my legs sluggish, and it seems no matter how fast I move, no matter how much I slash and destroy, another camp member is falling before me. I see a woman whose name I can't remember become ambushed from behind before I can warn her, a half rotten jaw digging into her shoulder. I see another man run in my peripherals, run for his life, but he trips and goes down hard, a pack of walkers on him before he can get back up. I see Rebecca and Simon, back to back, become overwhelmed by five geeks and I can't get there fast enough, I'm too far away, _there's nothing I can do, _and they collapse under tearing hands and gnashing teeth, their shrieks of pain vibrating painfully in my ears. Hopelessly, I still try to reach them, thinking there must be something, _something can be done, _but then more walkers are coming at me and Sophia is screaming now, high pitched and sounding like every nightmare I've ever had. I wheel around, frantic, still lashing out when rotten fingers get to close, the fetid odor of decay to rank, and I finally I see her.

Carol has her daughter wrapped tight in her arms, has her half lifted off the ground as she tries to stumble and run from a huge male geek that's hot on her tail. She screams in terror, in pleading, I can see the tears on her cheeks in the weak light of moon and fire, and Sophia all the while keeps wailing, the sound reaching a crescendo until I can hear nothing but that one note. I start to run for them but in my mind, I know I can't reach them. They're yards and yards and miles away. I can't reach them. I can't reach them. I need a gun, any gun, some_one _with a gun.

"SHANE!"

The former cop snaps his head around at the sound of his name. His eyes scour the carnage, searching, and I wave my hand frantically in the air, hoping the glare of the katana will catch his attention. It does and I start pointing behind me, nearly throwing my arm out of socket, whipping my head from staring at him to tracking Carol and making sure she hasn't succumb. I'm still running.

"Carol!" I shout at Shane. I gesture at the running woman; my gut roils as I see how much closer the walker is to catching her. "Help her! Shoot it!" Shane hesitates, gun cocked and loaded, but the trigged not pulled. "Shane!" I scream in pleading. All of the sudden, a walker lunges at me from the darkness and I curse as I bring the katana down on it's face. When its body lays prone in the dirt, I snap my head up and see that Carol is still running, right behind me, fifty yards and almost done. I whip around and find Shane still staring at me, his mouth moving but I can't hear what he's saying, don't want to hear what he's saying, just wanting him to _fucking shoot. _

"Goddamn it! Walsh shoot the fucking thing!" His face twists, cast in shadow, and he tries to say something again but I won't let him. "FUCKING SHOOT IT!"

The retort of his rifle—not the usual shotgun, must have run out of ammo—is like a holy choir singing hallelujah. I'm just starting to think _thank fuck Carol's saved _when a searing pain tears through my arm. The white-hot agony makes me cry out, notions of walkers and teeth, broken skin and infection careening through my head before I look down and see not a geek bite, but a furrow carved deep into the upper half of my left arm.

Shane shot me. He fucking shot me.

The thought barely registers before I'm spinning on heel, casting my eyes about, because if he shot me, he must of missed the walker and Carol needs help, needs _saving, _and Sophia might _die! _

Except Carol and Sophia aren't where I last saw them. They're tearing through my peripherals and I turn just in time to see them be hustled toward the RV by Morales who's brandishing a bloody bat. The walker that had been chasing them lies in the dirt, still and unmoving twenty yards in front of me, it's neck turned at a sickening angle so I catch sight of the crater like hole that Shane's bullet indented into the middle of its face. Seeing the bullet hole and feeling the scalding burn on my arm I suddenly think back to Shane's hesitation, his attempts at shouting something at me. He was trying to tell me to move; I was in his way; he didn't want to shoot me.

Something in me wants to laugh, because out of everything I've taken the last few days, I had tried my hardest to remain bullet free. Well, there went that notion. But I don't have time to curse or cry at life's ironies. Walkers still moan in the darkness, people still scream, and I have no more time to stand and be idle. Turning my katana on myself, I slice the bottom half of my shirt off, being careful not to nick any skin with the gore covered blade. Strip of fabric in hand, I force my right hand to tie it around my upper arm, shielding the open wound, screaming behind gritted teeth at the pain. The knot is haphazard and I cinch it with my teeth, tasting salt. My vision swims and bile rises in my throat but I forget the blood snaking down my skin, the way my arm now fights me on every movement, the extra, agonizing heart beat in my wrist, and dive back into the melee.

People are rushing in a stampede for the RV, following Shane's shouted orders. I see Morales' family up there, Dale, Shane, Lori, Carl, Sophia and her mother. I can make out no one else in the darkness. There are still too many sprinting shapes and I can't tell who's walker and who's not until one of the latter category sets in on me, snarls and growls and rheumy, marbled eyes. My feet tangle in bodies and slide in blood slicked dirt as I try to fight my way up the hill to the Winnebago. But my body is tiring, pushed to its uttermost limits. I'm one of a few still fighting hand to hand, or blunt object to head anyway, and even the others are trying to turn tail. Gunshots come less and less, not because the number of geeks is dwindling, they're still here in droves, everywhere I turn, but because the ammo is running out. No more bullets; no more shotgun pellets. Soon, all we are going to have left are bats and pipes and my blade. Against these numbers, we'll all be overwhelmed.

A wet gurgle to my left has me starting and suddenly, a geek looms over me, its throat torn out, a gaping, red hole left in its wake from which watery snarls echo. I try to stumble away, raise my katana, I hear screams of my names as if from a distance but no resounding crack of a bullet comes to save me. Seems we've finally run out of ammunition. My blade feels too heavy; I don't have enough strength to lift it. The geek seems to sense this and its hand reaches out, snags the front of my shirt, broken nails digging into the fabric. I weakly struggle but it's not enough to get away, not enough to save me, and I gaze up in the yawning maw of my death, waiting for the inevitable bite.

* * *

><p>The run back to the quarry is a pain in the ass. It's almost ten goddamn miles and the sun is excruciatin, burnin the back of Daryl's neck and the bridge of his nose. He had told Grimes they should just go back and steal another car but the streets were crawlin with geeks, more than usual, all of them hyped up by the commotion earlier in the day. They tried twice to snag a vehicle but both instances almost ended in them bein bit in the ass and, what was more, they didn't have the time to waste. Merle had probably reached camp already and Daryl just wished he didn't kill anyone or get killed before they returned. It was a stupid ass wish but he clung to it all the same.<p>

Now, since the moment Daryl entered the quarry, he knew every single last person there was a city slicker, spoiled and pampered. But—holy _fuck—_it's never been more obvious than when none of them, save Grimes and even he has trouble, can do more than jog a mile before forcin them all to stop. Daryl glares like his heated gaze will get them movin but Chinaman just clutches the stitch in his side while T-Dog doubles over pantin. Grimes tries to act like he ain't in the same state but Daryl sees right through his shit; he's barely standin on his own two feet. The hunter hates their weakness, wants to curse at them, demand if they've worked a single goddamn day in their life cuz Daryl could run this distance since he was eight, needin to get far away from that house he lived in, his drunk father, the yawnin absense of his Ma. But he does none of those things. Instead, he hefts the bag of guns that Grimes had dropped to the ground up onto his shoulder, ignorin the way his muscles protest, the way his crossbow digs painfully into his spine. The cop tries to argue but Daryl ignores him too. He starts off with a brisk walk down the long, gravel road that leads up the hill, back to camp, and soon enough, the rest of them join him and they're joggin again. Even with the added weight of the guns, Daryl outpaces them all.

No one says a word the rest of the way back; they don't have the energy. The only sounds to be heard are harsh pants and wheezin breaths, the heavy pound of footfalls and the clatter of loose rocks. As time drags on and the sun steadily approaches the horizon, Daryl actually begins to feel the strain. His knees have started to click and sweat's pourin off him in rivers. His vision's gettin spotty and he won't say nothin, not to anyone, but he's been feelin light headed for hours now. It's cuz the last time he ate was…fuck over two days ago and he damn well knows it, knows his body is barely even runnin on fumes now. But there had been no _time_. He went from huntin game to huntin down his brother with no rest in between. Eatin was a luxury he couldn't afford. Or so he thought. Now his neglect is comin back to kick his ass.

Not long after Daryl gets a pulsin headache behind his eyes, T-Dog calls out for them to stop again, lettin the bag of tools he's carryin tumble to the ground before anyone can say otherwise. Grimes spares Daryl a glance, as if askin permission, and the hunter scowls and grunts noncommittally, turnin away like he's disgusted with the lot of them when, in reality, he needs to get the ground to stop movin under his feet.

Ten yards away from where he's standin, Daryl sees an outcroppin of rocks and he quickly—as quick as he can manage anyway— and trudges to it. His knees buck just as he reaches the first boulder. Cursin at the sudden give, Daryl flings his hand out and catches himself at the last minute, palm scrapin harshly on the gritty surface of the waist high rock. The sting doesn't even faze him, pinpricks of blood washed away by the sweat and weariness in every inch of him as he manages to sit down without _fallin_ down. Daryl chances a glance to the side but no one's payin him much attention, too busy guzzlin water like racehorses and tryin to keep their lungs in their chests. He tries to sneer at the sight but fails when his sight doubles.

"Fuck." Daryl lets his eyes slip closed and he starts countin his breaths. As a precaution, just in case they ran across any more geeks on the way, he's also been carryin one of the extra shotguns they brought back. He could have stowed the gun and carried his crossbow but the bow is to heavy to run with. Now though, the gun weighs goddamn two tons. It almost slips from Daryl's clammy fingers but he's not that fuckin weak yet and he manages to drop it into his lap, flexin his fingers and tellin himself they aren't shakin.

However, as the gun settles against his thighs, a dull crinklin noise reaches his ears. At first he thinks it's somethin in the brush behind him but the noise didn't sound like dry grass and the minute, sudden seize of his shoulders eases. The sound repeats itself and Daryl frowns as he opens his eyes. It takes him a moment, he has to squint to focus his gaze, he has to shift to hear the noise again, but soon enough he sees it: a small, red piece of plastic, stickin out from his pocket.

Daryl knows what it is before he reaches for it, knows that it's that goddamn protein bar the kid had pressed into his palm before she whirled away. But just because he knows it doesn't stop the churnin in his gut that has nothin to do with hunger when he pulls it out and lays it flat in his hand.

The bar stretches from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his hand. It's crumbled and more than a little bent, warm and soft against his skin. His stomach snarls at the sight and he remembers green eyes and concerned gazes, tentative smiles and split lips.

_"Do you want me to grab you something real quick? I think there are some leftovers from breakfast, nothing much but enough to take the edge off until you get back."_

_"It's a protein bar. I…I had a few left in my pack and well…it has all the nutrients of a full meal so…you know…"_

A part of Daryl wants to throw the bar away, cast it into the dirt. Not cuz he's pissed at the kid but cuz he's pissed at…he doesn't even know anymore; himself, Merle, the rest of the assholes at the quarry. All and none of the above. He just feels like shit and he wants—_needs—_to get back already, see what's happened, see the damage, see what he can goddamn _fix. _Daryl casts half a glance to the sky and notices that it's already sunset. Merle can demolish a bar in five minutes flat and get them all carted off to jail within half an hour. It's been half a _day_, at the least, since Daryl last saw that cube van. The quarry could be burnin by this point. The thought makes he want to jump to his feet and sprint the last few miles back but the headache in his temples stops him, as does the flickerin of his vision. The fact of the matter is, no matter what Daryl _wants, _he ain't gonna get nowhere if he passes out. He glances down at the bar in his hand and doesn't give it a second thought when he rips the plastic off, bringin the melted and mushy, chocolate covered granola bar to his lips.

Daryl knows it should taste sweet, the wrapper boasts of real chocolate and other cavity inducin shit, but as he chews and swallows, chasin every mouthful with a gulp of matter, he can't help but think it tastes like dirt and feels like glass goin down.

A few minutes go by and Daryl tries not to notice how his vision evens out, how his headache starts to lessen, but when Grimes rallies the rest of them up, he can't exactly ignore how his legs don't shake anymore or how he has a new burst of energy. When they start to run again, he hates to admit it but he _knows_ that fuckin bar saved his ass and that's just another goddamn thing he's indebted to that kid for. When he thinks about the shit he's done to her, directly and indirectly, all the fuckin _shit,_ Daryl realizes he's in debt up to his ears and sinkin like a stone. It makes him feel even worse, like dirt, crap, and trash—_ Garbage ain't allowed in heaven. Ya know that, don' ya boy—_and it pushes him to run that must faster through the darkenin bruise of twilight.

#

It's dark by the time they hit the final stretch. Night fell quickly as they ran and despite the lift the protein bar gave him, Daryl feels wiped out. His muscles burn and his eyes sting, his lungs feel bruised and he has blisters along his heels and insteps. But he doesn't say anythin, doesn't show it. He just keeps runnin and, _finally, _the rest of them seem to catch his frantic need to get back to camp cuz they've picked up the pace. Chinaman's huffin and puffin beside him, drenched in sweat, but there's this determined glint in his eye, shinnin in the dull light of the moon, and Daryl kinda admires his drive.

Then he remembers that it's the fact that Merle could be killin everyone at the quarry that's drivin the chink and his admiration sours into somethin unnamable.

The thought of his brother sets Daryl's bones shiftin in his skin. Because with each step, the four of them get _that_ much closer to their destination and now that the finish line is in sight, Daryl has to start thinkin bout what he's gonna say, what he's gonna _do, _when he finally sees his brother. But he can think of nothing to say. It's just this big fuckin mess in his head of ingrained loyalty to the only family he's got left—_cuz kin's everythin baby bro; you remember that_—and the chink's fuckin face as he told Daryl that same family member tried to murder a seventeen year old kid by throwin her off a roof. A kid, Daryl's mind traitorously whispers at him, that's done nothin but be kind to him, try to be his friend, for reasons Daryl can't understand. A kid that, though Daryl hated to admit it, hated to think about it but couldn't ignore it, may have started to succeed before he fucked it all up cuz no one's ever treated the hunter like she had, like he was smart enough to be listened to and…and just _enough _to be around without it bein an obligation. So no, Daryl doesn't have the words. He doesn't have actions either, a physical plan B when he finally saw his brother. Merle was tied up, left in the city to die, and cut off his fuckin hand, all in the span of one day. He's gonna be pissed like Daryl's never seen him. And if he's amped up again, there ain't no stoppin him, one handed or not. The hunter wonders at what his brother could have done already, even one hand down and sufferin from major blood loss. The list he comes up with is long and gruesome and he just prays that Merle passed out or somethin cuz he doesn't want to think about the alternative.

However, when he hears the first gunshots, a part of Daryl thinks that whatever vague alternatives he had thought up were gonna be nothin like watchin his brother put bullets in people skulls.

Grimes actually stumbles when the sharp retorts and sharper screams shatter the night's silence and, even in the weak light, Daryl can see the cop blanch. "Oh my god," he whispers, like a fuckin prayer, a plea. The four of them freeze in the echoes, stock still and tense, half aborted thoughts of hearin things, exhausted hallucinations, but then someone _screams _again, voice going up and up until abruptly being cut off by another gunshot, and then Grimes is runnin, balls to the fuckin wall, and the rest of them have no choice but to follow. Daryl feels bile in his throat, somethin akin to fear clenchin in his chest as he cocks the shotgun in his hands and knows that he has to say somethin _**fast**_ or his brother's gonna be dead, if he ain't already.

But when he finally bursts into camp, steps from the trees and out into the open, it's not to see Merle waving a gun around with Walsh dead at his feet. It's not to see Walsh beatin his brother's head in. Runnin into camp, Daryl sees somethin worse, much fuckin worse.

He sees hell on earth.

Walkers are _everywhere, _dozens of them, a moanin, shamblin, horde. Daryl can't keep track of them all, so many shiftin shadows in the dark. Bodies cover the ground more than dirt does and Daryl doesn't have to wonder at what the slick wet patches are; the moon catches the red of them well enough. The air smells like smoke and something metallic, something _wet, _and Daryl fights the urge to gag. It's like anyone's worst nightmare; it's like the world's endin _again. _Beside him, Grimes gasps, Chinaman honest to god _whimpers, _and then the geeks finally see them and they're sucked right into hell.

Daryl reacts from the gut. He doesn't think bout it, doesn't second guess, doesn't stand there in shock cuz he has learned not to since the apocalypse started; has learned instinct's the only thing gonna keep you alive now, the urge to fight or flee. Well Daryl can't fuckin run so he settles for his only other option. A geek is five yards in front of him, arms raised, jaw slack with moans, and he aims and fires within the span of two breaths. The walker tumbles to the ground and before it even stops twitchin, Daryl's already firin again and again and again.

Bodies start droppin like flies. It's a constant stream of _aim, fire, thud, aim, fire, thud. _Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl sees Grimes kill with precision, steady hand and a cool trigger finger that always finds its mark, even while his face screams _**fear **_like nothin else. Even Chinaman and T-Dog are holdin their own, though their aim isn't as good. Daryl watches as the chink pulls the trigger of the rifle in his hand, the round goin wild as the weapon bucks unfamiliarly in his hands, hittin a geek in the chest, just to the right of the sternum. The walker stumbles and falls from the impact but before long it's gettin back up and shamblin toward the young Asian again, not even fazed, a thick, almost black liquid oozing down what is left of its shirt. Daryl shoots it in the temple and it doesn't get back up this time round. Chinaman looks at him in wide-eyed gratitude, pantin, but it's only a moment's pause cuz then he's off and runnin again, this time yellin at the top of his lungs. It takes the hunter a second to realize the chink's speakin English and another second to process what he's hollerin.

"_Audrey! Audrey where are you?!"_

The kid's name is like a blow to the back of the head. Unwillingly, Daryl automatically drops his gaze to a body he's steppin over, lookin for short brown hair and wide, dead, green eyes. But it's just another geek starin back at him, rotten through and through. Daryl feels somethin like relief swell in his chest but it's quickly doused when he looks out across camp and sees the dozens of bodies, anyone of them possibly bein the kid.

Or his brother, his mind whispers but Daryl doesn't even pay the thought any attention cuz the cube van is nowhere in sight. Merle ain't here and Daryl has more pressin matters to worry about.

Like the fact that he finally sees Audrey.

Daryl jerks to a stop the instant he recognizes her, squintin through the smoke in the air. She's standin twenty yards away, wan and pale in the moonlight. That sword of hers dangles to the ground, slanted just so to catch the dyin light of the fire, the steel lookin like it's set aflame. It would look fierce if the kid was wieldin it but she ain't. It hangs useless and unused at her side and Daryl wants to fuckin _scream _at her cuz a geek has her by the front of the shirt and she needs to _fight _if she wants to live. But she doesn't; she just stands there and Daryl makes the decision for her, snappin his shotgun up, sightin along the barrel and firin just as the dumb, dead, bastard goes to sink its teeth in Audrey's neck.

Its head explodes just as the kid manages to wrench out of its grip. She stumbles as the body tumbles and both she and the walker slam harshly into the ground. Daryl has half a second to fear that maybe he had shot her too, a spare pellet imbedded in her skull, but then she's jerkin her head up, eyes castin frantically about before they land on him. Even at this distance, Daryl can see the green of her eyes, the fear and shock and relief. Someone screams off to his left and Daryl would have turned to help but before he can, another walker is settin in on the kid who is still lyin on the ground. He goes to shoot it but the chamber of his shotgun clicks empty and Daryl realizes he's run out of ammo. Audrey seems to realize it at the same moment he does cuz she goes white as a sheet, the bruises on her face standin out livid even in the dark. She meets his eyes for just a split second and that's when Daryl realizes he's movin, steppin over bodies and shiftin his hands so he's not holdin the metal in his hands like a gun but like a club cuz if he can't shoot these sumbitches than he's gonna beat their fuckin heads in. He opens his mouth to yell at the kid to get up, to run, to just _damn move _but he doesn't have to cuz she seems to have read his mind.

One moment this kid's lyin half propped up in the blood soaked dirt and the next she's on her feet, unsteady but upright nonetheless. Daryl feels surprise burn through him but it quickly turns to abject shock when the geek goes to grab her and she has her sword skewered through the crown of its head, the hilt jammed up under its chin, before it can even touch her. By the time he's standin five feet from her, she's already jerkin her sword out with a wet _squelch, _shovin the geek's body so it collapses away from the two of them, landin on top of the one Daryl put down not thirty seconds ago.

Daryl thinks back to the fight Audrey had with Walsh and the fierceness of her expression. Then he thinks that couldn't hold a candle to the look on her face now.

Chest heavin, Audrey looks up at him and Daryl goes rigid as their eyes clash. No longer separated by distance and darkness, he can see the terror and determination battlin for dominance in her gaze; he can see the bruises imprinted in her skin, still painful and black; he can see the sweat on her temples and the splatter of geek blood across the collar of her t-shirt, the juts of her clavicle, sprinkled across her cheek. She looks like hell but she's alive and Daryl tries not to notice the knot in his chest unfurlin.

"D…Daryl," the kid gasps, eyes wide. Her voice still sounds wrecked and scratchy from Merle's grip. Now, it also sounds high pitched and breathy, seeped in fear and exhaustion. "W…what…where—?"

A sudden growl behind her cuts Audrey off and Daryl is snarlin, "Duck!" right before he swings the butt of his rifle into another walker's face, its head snappin to the side right before it drops. The kid straightens with a wince and eyes as wide as the moon above them as she gazes down at the walker and back up into Daryl's face. Her mouth opens and closes but nothin comes out. Daryl can't think of anythin to say either. He just continues to stare at her and she at him as the moans and screams begin to peter out around them, gunshots comin less and less until they don't come at all.

It's Audrey that finds her voice first. "What are you doing here?" she asks. Daryl can't help but be thrown a little by her unexpected question.

"What am I doin here?" he repeats. A million responses tear through his mind and he says the first thing he can grasp. Shiftin the gun in his hands, he points the blood-streaked butt at her, a roar in his ears and adrenaline like heroin in his veins. "Savin yer _ass _kid!"

What did she think he was doin? Takin a goddamn Sunday stroll?!

At his words, the shock and awe clicks from Audrey's eyes. The green orbs abruptly turn hard and she scowls at the gun in her face, pushin it away with a harsh movement, the edge of her sword catchin on the wooden grain and tearin a chunk out before Daryl pulls it completely away. "Yeah well I didn't ask you to," she returns, words sharp and serrated. Daryl balks at them, uncomprehendin, mentally still back on that long windin road leadin to camp, lost and disoriented and desperately needin to play catch-up. Audrey doesn't seem to notice or particularly care bout any of this. She just turns her sword in her grip and perfects her sneer. He shouldn't be surprised, not after the shit he said, shit he _did, _but it stings him nonetheless. "And I'm pretty sure Merle isn't gonna actually be too happy with you. He worked pretty damn hard to do what that geek just tried to accomplish."

The mention of his brother, and what he had done, is like a sucker punch for Daryl. Coupled with the venom in the kid's voice, toxic where her words used to be sweet, the hunter can't come up with a response and ends up just starin at her, watchin the blood dry on her skin as her eyes start to crystallize before him. Like earlier today—Christ has it not even been a day?—it seems like the kid is far away, her eyes cold and detached, bottled glass with nothin behind them. Her usually expressive face is blank save for the sneer curlin her split lip and Daryl feels vaguely sick when he realizes the expression the kid is wearin now is the same one people have been givin him since he was a kid himself: disgusted and disdainful. Seems like that saint like patience and forgiveness has run out. His mind supplies that Audrey's just finally come to her senses and seen him as the world does. A part of Daryl, the part that sounds like his older brother, thinks it's bout damn time. The other part he ignores completely.

Forcin a scowl onto his lips, he's just bout to come up with a retort, an ingrained reaction, rackin his brain for one even as his mouth parts, when a sudden scream beats him to it. Both he and the kid flinch, scramblin for their weapons, forgettin the tension between them, but a quick look round reveals no new dangers, no new geeks. Audrey's brow furrows, bruises dancin in interestin patterns along her face, and she's just takin a curious step towards the blood curdlin sound when it repeats, the noise roundin out into a single word.

"_**AMY!"**_

The shrill name bears no meanin for Daryl, he can't even place it, but one look at the kid and he can actually see the blood drain from her face, her eyes almost bulgin out of her skull. She inhales so sharply it's a whistle and then she's no longer standin in front of him. Neck on a swivel, Daryl watches as she tears across the blood stained ground like her leg ain't fucked up, leapin over bodies and debris, feet barely touchin the dirt. Daryl cranes his neck and tightens his grip on the empty rifle he still holds, on edge and waitin for the second wave of walkers to immerge.

They never do.

And it isn't until he spots glimpses of blood streaked, blonde hair, until he sees the kid collapse to the ground feet away from the RV with Chinaman holdin her back, until he actually steps on the gore covered sword that Audrey had abandoned without a second thought, that he realizes…

The scream ain't one of fear.

It's the scream one hears at the end of the fuckin world, when breathin just ain't worth it anymore. Daryl shifts in discomfort, now that the adrenaline starts to fade, and stoops down to pick up the kid's now scarlet weapon, listenin as other cries join the first as he fumbles along the warm hilt. He doesn't know what's happened, only the general hell of it, but he knows someone's world is endin and even though it's cruel, even though he hates himself for it, Merle's image flashin in his mind's eye, still lost and fate unknown, he thinks…

Join the fuckin club.

* * *

><p>The second I hear Andrea's scream everything else fades from my mind; all the hell I just experienced, <em>walkersblooddeathfear, <em>the exhaustion replacing the blood in my veins, even Daryl himself, standing there with bright blue eyes and my life in his hands. Everything. It's like it didn't happened; it's like it didn't exist. Because with Andrea's voice rebounding in my skull, all I can think about is how this all started: Amy, a scream, a geek, and _redscarletblood. _

I'm running before I realize it. I'm feeling no pain. My eyes are trained on the RV, on the blonde hair sprawled across the dirt, and the ground could be collapsing behind my heels and I wouldn't know it. There's a single thought in my head and I let it consume me. I just need to get to Amy. I just need to reach her. She's…she's fine. She has to be. I'll _make _her be. Something is screaming at the back of my mind that I can't help her; that she's _gone, __**infected, **_beyond my reach. I force the thought away; mentally shout _no no no nononononononono. _It's only when I feel arms around me, only when I hear Glenn's voice at my ear, telling me all the things that I thought were only in my head, that I realize I'm screaming loud enough for God to hear. But He isn't listening; He never has. Better yet, He doesn't even **exist** because if He did, there is no fucking EXCUSE for Amy's blood spilling across the dirt, seeping into the Earth, slicking Andrea's arms and burning into her skin. God doesn't exist. He can't. Because if He did, I would find a fucking way to kill Him.

"Glenn! Let me go!" I hear myself scream, as if at a distance. Amy's head shifts like she hears me, and something shatters brilliantly inside of me. "Let me go, let me go, LET ME GO!" I fight against his grip and the two of us buckle to the ground, me thrashing all the while. Glenn doesn't loosen his grip though. If anything, it only gets tighter and his words get more frantic, louder, as they break.

"She's gone Audrey," he sobs against my ear, lips dragging harshly along the shell. The letters sound ripped from his mouth, bloody and jagged as they crash upon my ears. I vehemently shake my head, smashing into his skull, eyes wide as I reject his words. "She's gone. You can't do anything. Stop. Please…just stop."

His words make me angry, so fucking angry because Amy's our friend, **MY **friend, and how can he give up on her like this? She'll be fine. She has to be. She…we were just talking. Talking about Faulkner and time and wrestling in the light of the fire. This isn't real. Can't be, can't be, can't be. The disbelief builds in me, a tremendous pressure, and it explodes with me throwing my elbow harshly into Glenn's side, not even listening to the groan he emits, only feeling his arms slide from my ribs. I scramble away the instant I'm free, crawling in the dirt. Someone tugs at my calf, my ankle, but I wrench away and shuffle to Amy's side, collapsing beside her head, opposite Andrea.

The instant I look into Amy's eyes, I _know; _know it's too late, know what Glenn said was true. It burns my lungs out from my chest and I can't breathe but that doesn't stop me from reaching out and trailing my fingers down her cheek, across her jaw, down to her neck and pressing _hard _on the gaping wound there, trying to keep the blood _in, _in her body, in her veins, in her heart. That same traitorous, clinical, voice at the back of my mind says it doesn't matter; the blood's infected anyway; it wouldn't help even if I could stop the bleeding. My hands don't seem to be listening though. My body's disconnected. Because though my brain knows it, knows it's over, the rest of me keeps trying to refute it and it isn't until Andrea sobs out harsh words that my brain registers that my mouth's been moving all this while, mindless and instinctive.

"I'm here Amy," I hear myself ramble. I taste bile and decay in the back of my throat. "Right here, I'm right here. Just look at me ok? Look at Andrea. We're here. We aren't leaving. Just look at us. Keep your eyes on us. It's…it's…it's gonna be fi—" I choke on the word and start up my previous lines again, reassuring my friend that I'm right beside her. My heart screams to tell her it's fine, that it's gonna be alright, ok, just fine. But I can't. It's a lie. Even my body knows this and it won't let me say it, won't let the last thing I say to Amy be a lie when almost everything else between us has been a deception.

Andrea feels no such hesitation though. "It's going to be ok Amy," she whispers to her sister. The younger blonde's eyes, starting to mist over and lose their focus, lazily flicker over to Andrea's and tears start to slip out of their corners, trailing across her temples and back into the bloodied hair. There's fear in her gaze, fear because she knows it too; knows her fate as much as I do even as everything in me rages against the inevitable. "I'm going to save you," Andrea continues and Amy exhales what would have been a sob or a laugh if the hole in her throat didn't bubble with the escaped air, blood gushing between my clamped fingers, warm and sticky. Andrea seizes at the sound, the sight, and suddenly shoves my hands away, pressing her own fingers to the palm sized wound. As if her efforts will yield a different result. As if she can actually save Amy.

_She's dying._

The thought is like a gunshot going off in my head. It stops me dead—_dead get it? Stops me __**dead**__—_and all previous notions of rescue and grand, heroic gestures bleed from me as fast as Amy's blood is draining from her. A numbness and an ice-cold disbelief begins to trickle through my veins. My body begins to shut down, detach, wanting to pull in and away and not witness this. I don't want to see this, don't _have _to see this. I can run, run, run away. Like I ran from Dalton, like I ran from Adeline Way almost ten years ago. I'm good at running. I can do it forever. Don't want to see this. Don't want to see this. _**Don't want to see this.**_

_She's dying._

But I see it all the same. I stay in place, not moving, not running. I force myself to stay alert, force myself to fumble for Amy's hand and intertwine our fingers, squeezing her palm to let her know I'm right beside her because I don't think she can see me anymore. She's my friend-_friend, friend, I keep losing them all—_and I'm not going to abandon her. Not now. Not when she's been there for me since the start, even when I didn't want her to be. Here, at the end, I will not leave her.

_She's dying._

Amy's pale blue eyes rove listlessly, tracing patters that I can't track. Her mouth opens and a gurgle falls from her blood stained lips. The sound is too close to a moan and I find myself talking again, just so I don't have to hear it.

This time, however, it's not assurances that trip off my tongue. I don't have any more in me.

"I'm sorry Amy." My apology is nothing but a slurred wreck but Amy seems to understand, seems to hear me, because her eyes suddenly find mine, bright and clear and still fucking _Amy. _The world narrows down to the two of us. There are no walkers; there is no quarry. Amy doesn't have a sister still desperately trying to keep sand in a sieve and there is no one named Glenn tugging at my calf, thigh, trying to wrap his fingers around my shoulder and tug me away. It's just Amy and I. Just the two of us. Nothing more.

Amy struggles to open her mouth. Tears are still dripping down her temples and her blood burns me where it touches my skin. Already, I imagine I can feel a fever to Amy's body. Somewhere deep, I know it's nothing more than a hallucination. It takes hours for the fever to set in. Amy has moments left. I realize this. She's lost too much blood. She's going to die…but she's going to die decidedly human.

It should be reassuring. It's fucking **not. **

"A…a…d…ree." My name is no more than a sighed breath, almost unrecognizable, but I hear it nonetheless.

"I'm here Amy," I say again because I can think of nothing else. Then I blurt out, "I'm sorry. So sorry. So fucking…but I'm here," because she needs to **know**. Know that I'm _so fucking sorry. _Sorry I couldn't trust her before. Sorry I could never be her _Emma. _Sorry she's dying right in front of me and that I'm doing nothing but letting it happen. Voice cracking, I realize my eyes are blurred with tears and I blink them away rapidly, needing to see my dying friend.

_She's d.y.i.n.g._

Amy looks scared to death—oh god oh god she's going to _die—_as her eyes find mine. There's a slight pressure on my hand and it takes me a moment to realize she's squeezing it. Unbidden, I bring our intertwined arms up, stomach roiling at the chunk of flesh missing from the underside of her forearm, the gushing blood staining her normally pale skin crimson. Sitting on her thin wrist, the pink bracelet I just gave her shines dully in the bright light of the moon, silver molten in the white light. I find myself staring at the red stained, pink knots before looking back at Amy's face. Her lips twitch and her throat makes that gasping sound again. I distantly hear Andrea cry out in distress but I'm more focused on leaning towards Amy's face, pulled as if by an unstoppable magnet, trying to make out the weak words her lips are trying to frame.

My hair brushes her cheeks and I feel her shaky exhalations along my jaw. A beat passes, and then two, and I'm just thinking Amy's gone, when I hear it.

"T…th…an…k y…ou."

I rear back as her words process, tears scattering off my eyelashes, because what is she _thanking _me for?! I've done nothing for her; not a thing. I can't even save her, my friend, who I promised to try and make happy, make safe. I couldn't even tell her the fucking truth about myself. _Why is she fucking thanking me?!_

I never get my answer.

Because just as I pull back, Amy's eyes slide over to Andrea and there's the beginnings of a smile curling the corners of her mouth, plaintive and heart wrenching, full of unspoken love and goodbye, right as her hand goes lax in mine. There's another gurgling shudder echoing out of Amy's throat and then she's completely still; bright, pale blue eyes going dim and dull, staring past her sister's head and into the dark above our heads.

_She's __**dead.**_

The ensuing silence is deafening and it's like the whole world has been put on mute. I stare down at Amy's oval and unmoving face without blinking. I want to wish that this is just a dream, a nightmare, but I know the truth. The truth is carved into the agony in my heart, branded on my skin with blood, burning my eyes with tears. I can't escape it and I don't fight it.

_She's dead. Amy's dead. One bite, one moment, just a breath. She's gone, gone, gone, and I couldn't do __**a damn thing. **_

I drop Amy's hand and slump backward against the RV, staring unseeingly at my friend's corpse as Andrea starts to scream and sob.

There's a hand on my shoulder but I pay it no mind; there is a voice at my ear but I don't even acknowledge it. I just sit there, in the dirt, yet another friend's blood on my hands, Amy's face flickering in my mind: long, blonde, pin straight hair, full pink lips and blue eyes.

Except the blue of her eyes don't stay blue. They bleed amber, and then turn into a blank, white, opaque color and I can't tell if I'm staring into Amy's dead gaze or Kaleigh's and somewhere along the line decide it doesn't matter either way. Both blondes, both of my friends, are dead and I could do nothing to save them. I failed them equally.

Amy's dying words echo in my head. "_Thank you."_

And then, it's Kaleigh's voice. "_Please. Please Audie."_

What was Amy thanking me for? What was Kaleigh asking?

The answers feel just out of my reach, dancing along the fringes of my mind. I grasp for them blindly, needing to know, _**please tell me**_, but I grope empty air for an eternity before other fingers tangle with mine. I blink and I'm sitting in the dirt again. Glenn's hand clasps mine tightly and I stare at out intermingling digits, my scarred and slighter ones spearing blood—_Amy's blood—_into his skin. I look up and realize Glenn has me pressed into his side, back to the RV beside me, arms pulling me close. There are tears on his cheeks, sliding into his mouth as he talks to me, but I don't hear his words. There's an urge to wipe the salt off his face but it's buried below ice, immutable and unmovable. I just stare and stare and stare as Glenn cries and I feel myself slipping below the glacier in my chest. It all becomes numb—nothing hurts, I can't feel a thing—and when I look over absentmindedly, shrugging off Glenn's attempts to press my face into his neck, the body two feet from me is just another body in an endlessly dying world. I feel no connection with it. It's just blonde hair and pale skin and _wrongwrongtoowhite _blue eyes. It's not Amy. It's nothing but decaying matter. Amy's gone and I refuse to cry over some shell.

The words seem harsh, even in my own head, and I flinch because that seems the appropriate thing to do. I can hear people crying, see their tears; I can feel my own salty tracks carving furrows in my cheeks. But it's all so far away. It's hard to grasp, hard to hold on to. Glenn keeps calling my name but I don't respond. The world keeps revolving around me: red and scarlet and crimson and _whitetoowhite. _White skin, white eyes, white moon above us. The colors are too stark, too unsettling, and my eyes wander, yearning for relief.

_Blue. _

I find blue. Right blue. Not _toowhiteblue. _It's deep and soothing and calm. It cools the burning of Amy's blood on my hands; it thaws the ice in my heart. I find myself locked into the color and I blink when they blink, timing so I'll always been looking when the color is present. Daryl gazes at me across the battlefield, the cemetery, his eyes tied to mine, and I suddenly find myself wanting the older man closer.

If only because he's not crying, not grating on my ears with anguished screams.

If only because he won't want to hold me, hands too constraining, restraining, on my skin as Glenn tries to press our bones together, our friend lying dead a few feet away.

If only because his eyes look something like Amy's, look like my Mom's and Irina's and feel like the only grounding force in the world; _blueblueblue _in a sea of _redddeathscrarletcrimsondyin gred. _

But he doesn't move and I find myself immobile. Cast adrift in a tempest of vermillion sorrow, I'm quickly going under, Glenn's hands and Andrea's screams dragging me down. As the world starts to fade, Amy's last words resounding like a mocking condemnation in my skull, I know that this isn't me passing out. Oblivion is too merciful. This is me checking out; giving in; giving up. Something in me balks at the idea—_you must never give up; you must endure_—but I find myself too far gone to care.

_**Amy's gone. **_

_I know. _

_**All your fault. **_

_I know this too. _

_**What are you going to do now?**_

_Survive. _

_**You don't deserve it. You never did.**_

_I know. _

_I know._

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><p><strong>TBC. <strong>

**So thoughts? :) Please let me know! Even if it's one word or a whole page. I like all feedback but its especially gratifying to see long reviews *hint* *hint* ;)**

**And sorry that I kind of lied about the abundance of Daryl/Audrey interaction in this chapter :/ When I said that I was planning for a LONG chapter but that didnt pan out. :/ Sorry.**

**However! Next chapter starts us going to the CDC and all that jazz and Audrey's going to be turning more and more to Daryl in the wake of Amy's death. ;) I know. I'm a tease. I regret nothing. **

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**

**PS: *****IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE! PLEASE READ!********

**Hey guys I also wanted to say I'm heading into a big move at the end of this week :P And starting a new school year. As a college student. SO! That being said, I'm warning you now that it might be about 2 weeks until my next update as I will be getting used to my new surroundings and blah blah blah. But don't fear! When I do update, it will be LONG AS HELL and chock full of Daryl/Audrey interaction and feels :) Hope that keeps you around! Please don't abandon me or this story yet! It's just about to get GOOD!**


	22. Sorry About the Blood in Your Mouth

**A little bit over two weeks and for that I'm sorry :/ BUT! This chap is basically ALL Daryl/Audrey interaction so I hope that makes up for it. :)**

**I also wanted to thank you guys from the bottom of my heart cuz we've ALMOST hit 200 reviews! :D Do you know how awesome that is? Well let me tell you I think it's amazing and I love all of you who have made this story so popular and made writing Audrey and Daryl's story that much more fun :) This is for you guys!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OC and her plot. Some dialogue belongs to the amazing writers of TWD as do most of these phenomenal characters. **

**Warning: Language and gore. **

**ALSO! If Audrey seems a little...off in this chapter, like not herself, and if the writing seems more choppy and short, there's a reason for that. :) I wanted it to reflect her mindset in this particular piece. See? There is rhyme and reason to my madness ;)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 22: Sorry About the Blood in Your Mouth; I Wish it was Mine. <strong>

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><p>Twenty-nine.<p>

That's the number of bodies strewn across the quarry when the sun's first rays begin to heave themselves over the horizon. Ten of them are camp members. The remaining nineteen are walkers. All of them are dead and already decay permeates the air: thick, cloying, and fetid.

Daryl stands off to the side, sweat runnin in rivulets down the back of his neck, formin a crown against his brow. His skin is caked and crackles with grime: blood, dirt, salt, and he feels like the tears of the entire camp are seepin into his very fuckin pores. Everywhere he turns is another weepin person; their cries reverberate in the air and set his teeth on edge, make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It feels like he's comin out of his skin but he's got nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Camp's fucked. Most of the tents have been torn to shreds, walkers havin followed fleein people into their "homes", rendin both in two. The trees hold no more promise of escape. Every rustle has people leapin for their weapons, half jumpin for the RV. Daryl would mock them for it if he didn't flinch for his huntin knife every time a twig cracked.

The women sit huddled around the fire pit, ash all that's left between the haphazardly stacked stones. They have their kids pulled in close, close enough that their bones grind together, that knuckles turn white with the pressure of holdin on, and each woman tries to comfort her child, or children, as they cry, big fat tears rollin down rounded cheeks. Daryl can tell that they ain't do a very good job. Probably cuz the women are on the verge of tears or already cryin themselves. Daryl turns away from the sight and wipes at the sweat on his brow with the back of his wrist, discomfort burnin in his gut and pushin him into action. There's goddamn work to do. He ain't got the privilege of bein idle.

In the early morning sun, bodies are bein dragged off to either side of the RV: left for walkers and right for deceased members of camp. Daryl doesn't see a difference in any of 'em, they're all infected, but he keeps his mouth shut and just shuttles corpses from side to side. He just doesn't have the energy to fuckin argue. He honestly doesn't. It's been three nights since he has had any sleep and three days since he's had anythin but a protein bar to eat. He's not even runnin on fumes now; just the knowledge that if he falls asleep now he'll probably end up dead cuz the rest of these sons of bitches can't keep _themselves _alive. He ain't bout to trust them to keep _him _breathin.

The work is slow and quickly, time begins to blur. Daryl blinks and he's twenty yards away from where he last remembered, yet another body in his hands, weight strainin against his arms. He doesn't know if it's a walker or not but someone herds him to a certain pile and he drops the corpse without ceremony. His muscles scream from the effort and his unfocused eyes take in the gouged out plane of a cheek, stark red blood, and brown rheumy eyes. Daryl distantly and abstractly thinks _human. _Or formerly human anyway. Cuz they ain't nothin but worm food now. Even if their skin still retains some hues of color; even if their expressions are frozen into such masks of terror they can't be anythin less than human. Daryl tells himself they're dead and he can't do anythin bout it; tells himself it ain't his fault.

And he'd believe it…if it weren't for the burnin ice in his veins, turnin him to cold stone with leaden guilt.

He'd believe it…if he couldn't feel green, bottle glass eyes drillin a hole through the back of his skull, a heat like no other spreadin across his skin, a separate heartbeat that pulsed _trashshitcrapyouaren'tallowedinheaven _and _youcouldn'tsavethem._

Daryl does his best to ignore the guilt like poison in him, just as he does his best to shrug off the weight of that green gaze. Neither effort works and soon he finds himself glancin over his shoulder, unable to help it as his gaze automatically goes to a figure not too far away.

She's sittin ten yards away from the others, amongst the ruins of a small lean-to they had erected to house firewood. Perched on a small log, her eyes look dull and unfocused, starin at him, _through _him. Her hair is lanky and greasy as it hangs in her face, clings to her jawline. There's dirt and blood smeared into her skin, Daryl doesn't know whose, he doesn't want to think it's hers, and there are tear tracks carved into her otherwise pale face. She ain't cryin now though. Just sittin there, unmovin. Every once in a while, Chinaman will walk back over to her, whisper something, touch her shoulder, her hair, but she never really responds. More often than not, she just shakes her head minutely and goes back to starin at nothin. Sometimes, she won't do anythin at all. The chink will frown those times and look like he wants to say more but then Grimes or Walsh will call him back and he'll leave again. Daryl doesn't know for sure but he thinks Audrey looks relieved whenever Chinaman walks away.

He hasn't spoken to her since last night, since he shot that geek in the head before it could bite her, since she spat venom in his face. He hasn't had the chance. It's been one thing after another—check perimeter, make sure there were no more walkers in the area, do a head count, move bodies, start a fire, start the graves. Daryl hasn't had a chance to fuckin breathe let alone go find the kid to talk to her. Not that he wants to just…he couldn't even if he did.

And anyway, the kid doesn't look up for talkin, even if Daryl did want to which he doesn't. She looks really out of it, just sittin there, bandaged leg stuck out in front of her and arms settin lifeless in her lap. Her sword lies discarded in the dirt a few feet away, unsheathed and bare to the elements. She doesn't look like she particularly cares one way or another. Daryl thinks of how he had set the weapon gingerly, and with some care, near the fire pit, tryin to get it out of the way so people wouldn't trample or cut themselves on it. For as much attention as the kid's givin it, he could have just left it in the dirt she dropped it in and it wouldn't have mattered. That fact doesn't sit right with the hunter, the kid's usually as meticulous with that blade as he is with his crossbow, but then again, nothin is sittin right with him now. Everything's fucked up and turned on it's head and Daryl _really _wishes the ground would quit movin beneath his feet cuz he's tryin to work here goddamn it. Snarlin under his breath, he tears his eyes away from Audrey and goes in search of that pickaxe he saw lyin round, thinkin someone's gotta make sure none of these dead folk ain't gettin back up again and, somehow, he just thinks that Walsh and Grimes ain't gonna be the ones to do it.

Fuckin city folk.

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><p>"Audrey?"<p>

A hand on my shoulder, slight pressure.

"Audrey can…can you hear me?"

Fingers grip tighter. Voice takes on a pleading undertone. A pause.

"Please Audrey. Just…just talk to me. Are…are you…do you need anything?"

Tighter grip, thicker plea, and then there are eyes staring into my own, inches away. I blink slowly at the sight and sparse eyelashes flutter in front of me. For a moment, I stare at the cool, blue veins threading through the thin eyelids, skin pale and translucent, eggshell white and just as fragile, but then they flutter again and I'm left gazing into deep brown orbs, drowning in concern.

Confusion trickles through me—words I can hear but not understand—and I end up shaking my head because it's the only thing I can do. The concern in those eyes turns sharper, more poignant, and it would worry me…if I could feel it. But I can't. Can't feel much of anything. It's all hazy and distant and muffled. I feel like I'm submersed underwater but don't have the sensation of drowning. There's a headache at the back of my eyes, the base of my skull, and my chest feels bruised, sore yet not quite, but it's easy enough to ignore. Something far away screams at me, flashing red in my mind, but I shy away from it. Don't want to know. Don't want to see. I'm fine right where I am.

Suddenly, there's something on my face, trailing across my cheek. Unconsciously, I reach for it and I bump into someone else's fingers, hard press against a bruise and I wince at the unexpected pain, stark to my otherwise muddled senses. Blinking as the haze temporarily lifts, there's a pop in my ears and abruptly, Glenn's voice comes crashing into my ears. It's jarring and my head swims.

"Audrey," he repeats and I find myself, for the first time, unable to look away from his face. It's pale. And too close. Sweat winds its way across his cheeks, scattering off the ends of his hair, the sharp, rank smell of it wafting into my nose. I try to move away but Glenn has a hand on my shoulder, another one on the back of my head, and I can't escape. "Audrey," he says again and I say the only thing that comes to mind.

"I heard you the first time." My voice sounds off but I can't pinpoint how.

Glenn blinks at my response and his brow crinkles. If it's possible, he looks even more worried. "W…what?" he asks.

I frown—the motion seems harder than usual, takes more effort—and shrug out from under Glenn's hands. They skim across my skin for a moment longer before they drop away to his sides. "I said I heard you. You don't have to keep repeating my name. I'm not deaf."

"I…I just…you weren't talking," Glenn stammers. He chews on his bottom lip and my eyes drop to track the movement. The lower lip is already split, dry, chapped skin given way under constant worrying. I absentmindedly think back to that tube of chap stick I have squirreled away in my hiking pack and consider lending it to Glenn.

Not taking my eyes off of Glenn's mouth, half formed thoughts of cherry flavored wax and the metallic taste of blood, I reply, "Not much to talk about."

Something in me screams _wrongliesomuchwrong _but I shy away from it and try to burrow back into the haze. I try to make everything blurred around the edges and make it a game to see how much I can see and hear without _really_ seeing or hearing much at all.

But Glenn doesn't like my game. I'm not sure why. He keeps making me lose; pulling me back when I've almost won; touching my arm or speaking louder. At one point, he actually drops to his knees in front of me and cradles my face in his hands, mindful of bruises and cuts. For a split second, I expect calluses to scrape along the arches of my cheeks or the curve of my jaw but Glenn's hands are smooth and unblemished. Flawless hands. Innocent hands.

I think that they will change soon enough. Nothing can stay innocent for long. Not in this world. Flashes of golden hair and laughing eyes—blue and then amber and then blue again—dance across my thoughts but I let the bottom fall out from under my mind and ground myself in the words Glenn is whispering into the air I'm breathing; words that I had previously not been listening to.

"I think you need to sleep Audrey," he says. "Why don't you…I'll find you something to lie down on and you can sleep."

I tilt my head at him, straining against the grip he has on my face. "But I'm not tired." I'm really not. I'm fine. He's the one that looks like he needs to sleep. There are purple half-moons under his eye; the rims themselves are bloodshot. Even now he's almost panting, like he's run a marathon. Maybe I should find something for _him _to lie down on. I wonder if he could fit into my sleeping bag.

Before I can offer, however, Glenn starts shaking his head, back and forth, side to side, and when he meets my eyes, they're sad and dark. "Yes, you are," he tells me.

"No. I'm not," I repeat back to him. Twisting my head to the side, I force his fingers to fall off my face. "I think I'd know how I feel Glenn." An undercurrent of irritation laces my words, but the true feeling is watered down, diluted. It doesn't take long at all for the emotion to die down completely, immersing me again in a sort of numb, suspended animation. I blink at Glenn and feel nothing and he must sense it because he reaches out and takes my left hand, the touch of his skin jarring me once more.

Those big brown eyes of his take on a watery quality when he suddenly says, "You're in shock Audrey. That's why you don't feel tired. But you are, I know it, and you _need _to rest." He pauses for a moment, eyes roving over my face. "_Please," _he adds, almost as an afterthought. It's a plea. I don't understand it.

Why would I be in shock? I'm fine. Nothing hurts; I don't think I'm bleeding. Why would I—?

_"T…th…an…k y…ou."_

The words come screaming from the darkness and they shatter against the inside of my skull. They echo and vibrate, setting my teeth grating against each other, and I am unable to stop the word that slithers off my tongue.

"Amy."

Glenn goes rigid in front of me, his fingers tightening to the point of pain around my own. He stops breathing for a moment and when I look up into his face, a lone tear trickles out of the corner of his eye. Oh. That's why. He thinks I'm in shock over Amy. Because she's dead. Dead and gone, torn open by a walker. I drop my eyes and am immediately drawn to the stark red of my hands, dried blood painting interesting patters across my skin, all the way up to my elbows. I cock my head at them curiously, thinking of Rorschach tests and therapists. _What do you see here? How does that make you feel?_

As my eyes trace the shape of a laughing jaw line tattooed on my wrist, I decide to put Glenn's mind at ease. "I'm not in shock," I tell him. "Though I think you might be." Lifting my gaze, I frown at the ashy quality of Glenn's face. "Maybe _you _should lie down."

There's a moment's pause after my words and I'm just thinking that Glenn's going to heed my suggestion, but then he takes a ragged breath and squeezes my hand tighter. The bones in my fingers grind harshly together and I wince at the once again unexpected pain.

"Audrey," Glenn starts again, saying my name _again, _as if I think he's talking to someone else. I really do believe he's the one in shock. His eyes are clear though, which is weird, clear and sharp as they cut through the haze and into my own eyes. "Do you know what…what's happened?"

A lot's happened. The world's ended. I've learned how to cut up a squirrel in five minutes flat. I had my wrist fractured. Walkers attacked camp. Glenn needs to be a little more specific.

As if on cue, my friend continues. "Do you know what happened…to Amy?"

I blink at the quiet exhalation, three letters, two syllables, one name. "Yes," I return and Glenn looks skeptical, like I'm saying mindless words without knowing their meaning, so I clarify. "She died. Got bit. Bled out. I was there." Detangling my fingers from his, which doesn't take much effort because Glenn's grip suddenly goes lax, I lift my hands and show him the Rorschach blots on my knuckles; the red moon with its craters, the cackling skull, the winding crimson rivers. _What do you see Glenn?_

He doesn't seem to see anything; he doesn't even look at my hands. His eyes stay pinned on my face, more tears swirling in their depths, and the intensity in which he stares at me is unsettling. It's like he's asking something of me but I don't know what, can't even begin to guess, and, what's more, I have nothing left to give. Just these blood blots on my hands and their ever-changing images. Feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I refuse to meet Glenn's eyes and instead stare resolutely over his shoulder. I'm not looking for anything, other than escape from the tears in Glenn's eyes, but I find something nonetheless.

It's a fire. Large and consuming, black smoke billows off the edges of orange flames. It's then that I realize the stinging of my eyes, irritated but dry, empty and having nothing left to give like the rest of me. The smell hits me soon after: rotten and burned flesh; almost gag inducing. They're burning the bodies. I can see the charred, black shapes even from here, piled haphazardly to the left of the RV. Absentmindedly, I watch the smoke twist darkly into the pale blue sky, watch the ash float back to the ground, and think of cremation and ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I think of my expanding lungs, one breath, two, a million, _I'm still breathing here, _and wonder if the heaviness in my chest is from the countless people I'm breathing in, their remains, nothing but fluttering particles that still retain their weight. Suffocating me.

I take a deep breath and hold it, cheeks puffed out ridiculously, and I believe I can almost taste all those people, billions of lives, memories, all reduced to ash in the air.

The men are still piling on bodies. I don't bother to count them. Does the number really matter? The resounding no in my skull seems to mock me.

Silently, I watch as T-Dog and Morales drag yet another one up from somewhere out of my line of sight and drop it a few feet away from the burning heap. There's a pause, the two men bend over and pant, catch their breaths, and all of the sudden, a third figure walks up. I know who it is without even having to see their face. I can tell from the sleeveless shirt, the hunting knife attached to a hip, the aggressive stride. And when he stomps over to the body that T-Dog and Morales just dropped, hefts a bloody pickaxe over his shoulder and slams it into the walkers head like it's nothing, I know that man can be no one but Daryl Dixon. No one else could do something that gory without flinching; not even Shane, for all his bravado. A thought worms itself into my head that I've done what Daryl is doing—and worse—without flinching either. That fact must mean something. I don't know what.

As Daryl wrenches the pickaxe back, a trail of brain matter arching in the air after him, he suddenly lifts his head and his eyes clash with mine. The stark blue of them jolts me, makes me think of _toowhiteblue, _gut wrenching cries, a white moon, a pale face and the words _thankyouthankyouthankyou. _My head swirls, there's a sharp pain in my chest, too sharp, don't like it, and I tear my gaze away, listening to the thud of my heart reverberating in my ear and waiting for the pain to recede back into the haze of my mind.

I'm not so lucky. Because the second I look away from Daryl, my gaze lands on Andrea. Andrea, who is still sitting prone in the Winnebago's shadow, not having moved an inch since last night. Andrea…who has her sister's head cradled in her lap, stroking blood stained, blonde hair off her forehead.

The sight of Amy's corpse makes something in me give but the sensation is distant and removed; like a crack that forms deep within the heart of a glacier. In the back of my mind, I know that dull throb I feel now is only the immediate reaction, that the aftershocks have yet to reach me, but I can't find it in myself to care. Out of sight, out of mind. For now. There's a dim rumble in my ears, an avalanche barreling toward me, but there's nothing I can do for it now so I just ignore it. Out of sight, out of mind. Out of sight, out of mind.

All of the sudden, Glenn gasps and I blink, coming back to my senses. I think maybe I've said something without meaning to but when I look back at my friend…he isn't looking at me. He's craned to look over his own shoulder, probably having followed my line of sight, and his profile is shocked and concerned. I frown at the expression and now follow _his _line of sight, all the way back to the RV's shadow, back to Andrea and Amy's body.

Except Andrea isn't alone any more. Rick's suddenly there; crouched beside the older blonde. And he has a gun in his face. I can't hear the conversation that occurs but Rick quickly backs off, slowly retreating back to the fire pit. Andrea follows him with her eyes for a time, and her gun, but soon drops both, one back to her sister's face and the second to the dirt. The whole confrontation takes no more than ten seconds but Rick looks thoroughly shaken.

So does Glenn, for that matter. He's already half way to his feet by the time Rick's standing in front of the fire pit and he only catches at the last minute, casting half a deliberative glance down at my face, a whole myriad of emotions flickering across his own visage. He wants to talk, say more, I know it, can _see _it, but I just calmly blink up at him, belaying nothing. I don't feel up to talking right now. I'm not tired just…not in the mood. And Glenn finally seems to _get _it because he murmurs something about being right back before he steps away from me, hurriedly walking over to where the majority of the camp's survivors, which is not many, congregate around Rick.

A part of me just wants to go back to staring at nothing, just _existing _which in and of itself is a burden, but my curiosity gets the best of me as I watch Rick and Shane start to argue. Their voices aren't raised but their spines and shoulders are tense, faces creased with emotion, and the others start to follow their examples as their postures begin to change, their expressions tighten and ripple. It's interesting to watch them, fascinating to track the movements of their lips or eyebrows, and I find myself disappointed that I can't hear them. Unbidden, I rise to my feet, swaying for a moment when my ankle threatens to give, when my vision doubles and swims and doesn't ever really even out. Logically, I should sit back down before I _fall _down. But logic doesn't really have a place in this nonsensical world anymore, so I find myself staggering towards the fire pit just as Daryl, of all people, begins to talk.

"Y'all can't be serious," he scoffs. The pickaxe I saw him wielding earlier is cocked on his shoulder, bloody and gruesome in the morning light. "Ya gonna let that girl hamstring us?" Everyone around him—Rick, Lori, Shane, Glenn and Dale—refuses to meet his accusing gaze. Daryl scowls, the expression so familiar, and stabs a hand in the general vicinity of the RV. "The dead girl's a _time bomb._"

Rick sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, smearing filth into his skin, every inch of him covered in it. "What do you suggest?" he asks. Even I can tell that he's more than willing for someone to make a suggestion, to take the reigns from him at this point. He looks battle wearied and beaten down; it's hard to imagine he's only been in camp for two days.

Daryl looks at Rick like the former cop doesn't understand English. Taking two steps forward, he leans in and says clear and slow, "Take the _shot," _like it's the simplest thing in the world. Someone makes an appalled noise, I can't tell if it's Dale or Lori or Glenn, but Daryl ignores them all. He keeps his eyes locked on Rick, whose expression I cannot see, and raises his hand to his temple in the shape of a gun. "Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a _turkey _between the eyes from this distance."

For some reason, the visual of Daryl turkey hunting makes me giggle and I have to bite my tongue to keep the noise in my throat. I don't think laughing is the appropriate response to what Daryl is suggesting. But what is the appropriate response? I can't seem to find one.

Lori, however, seems to think that it's disgust. "For God sake's," she hisses and I turn to see her glaring death at Daryl. "Let her be. She isn't any of your concern."

Daryl balks at her, eyes wide and shocked. I have to say I'm in agreement with him, though I am loath to admit it. "None of my concern?" he parrots back to her. His eyes are hard and made of blue glass. "Last I checked a _walker _is _all _of our concern. And it needs to be dealt with _now."_

Again, I agree with Daryl.

Not many others seem to.

"That isn't a _walker," _Glenn suddenly blurts. The young Asian is standing with his back right in front of me so I can't see the shape of his mouth or eyes but I can envision his horrified expression well enough. "That's _Amy!_"

Rolling his eyes, Daryl shifts the pickaxe on his shoulder and I watch a fleck of gore splatter onto his bicep. "Ain't yer little girlfriend any more Chinaman. She's dead and gone. And that _thing," _he lifts a hand and points towards Andrea who's cradling her sister's corpse. "Needs to be put down."

Everyone explodes into an argument: Lori hissing at Daryl, Rick trying to calm Lori, Glenn saying something loud that I cannot track, Shane moving to push Daryl away when he takes a step too close to Lori, and Dale trying to be the voice of reason above them all. If I was smart, I would just stay silent and let them argue this out amongst themselves. But I'm three for three with Daryl and I can't really see why everyone is upset. Maybe it's because people just generally don't want to agree with Daryl. I don't know. All I know is that, without thinking, I'm stepping up and speaking out.

"I agree with Daryl." Short, concise, and to the point. Simple. By the way everyone comes to a screeching halt, mid-sentence, mid-breath, you would think I just stated some long-winded mathematical algorithm that would cure cancer.

Glenn whirls to stare at me in shock. His face is still pale and ashen but now it also looks stricken. "W…what?" he stutters.

All eyes land on me and I squirm under their scrutiny. Shrugging, I avert my gaze and glance down at the scarlet patters on my arm, tracing pictures. "I agree with Daryl," I repeat. "The longer we let it go the more likely someone is going to get hurt."

I mean…it's only common sense. Does no one see that?

Silence echoes for a moment and then Lori breaks it. "It?" she asks. " 'The longer we let _it _go'? Audrey…that's _Amy._" Frowning at her words, I look up and meet the older woman's eye, see the horror in them. It confuses me.

"No it's not. Amy's dead. Died last night, under my hands." I cock my head to the right, gesturing towards the Winnebago. "That's just a body over there. A body that's eventually gonna get up and come after us. It's one bullet. I don't see what the big deal is."

"You don't mean that," Glenn whispers and when I look at him, there are tears on his cheeks. He's looking at me like he doesn't recognize my face and that's when I realize that…he still sees _Amy _in that body over there. They all do. They don't see a body or a walker or a threat. They see a teenage girl, Andrea's sister, a friend. They don't realize that she's long gone and clinging to a rotting corpse won't bring her back. And I can't make them see that. They have to come to terms with that reality on their own. Just as I did, months ago with the fires of Dalton warming my back.

I lapse into silence, at a loss for words, and everyone just stares at me in varying emotions, none of them particularly good. Well, except for Daryl. I can't tell what is in his eyes but it doesn't look judging. Then again, he can't judge me when he was the first to offer the one bullet solution. I just agreed with what he said.

After a few tense moments, people begin to disperse, though not before casting me parting glances of diluted disdain intermixed with varying degrees of concern. Daryl is the first to go. He takes one last look around the circle of people and rolls his eyes at what he probably thinks is weakness. He spits to the side, narrowly missing Shane's shoes, and turns on heel, marching away, probably to help burn more geeks. I don't know if he meant to, I don't know if he even noticed, but right before he completely turns his back, Daryl meets my gaze one last time. It's just a moment, barely a blink of an eye, but I think I see something like…respect in that one glance. It's gone before I can be really sure though, leaving me to watch helplessly as people turn their backs on me and walk away.

Glenn, not surprisingly, is the last to move away. But he doesn't move towards me either. He just stares. Stares like he doesn't know me; stares like he doesn't _want _to know me. I feel a spark of guilt for my seemingly callous words and want to explain, try to make him see what I meant, but the words won't come. In result, I'm left staring back at my friend, talking to him in glances, knowing he doesn't speak my language. Not yet at least. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wish he would never learn, never have to. But I know he will. Eventually. Inevitably. Irrevocably and without a doubt know the tongue I speak in. The thought hurts me, makes me feel like I'm somehow a failure, so I push it away and instead ask the only thing that comes to mind.

"What can I do to help?"

_Help you understand. Help you never have to feel this pain, know this truth. Help you to escape my fate._

I mean all these things and more but Glenn takes me more literally.

"There's nothing much for you to do," he says quickly but when I raise an eyebrow skeptically at him he sighs. "Ok. There's nothing much you _can _do." He averts his gaze and looks pointedly at my bandaged leg, then up to my bandaged wrist, thoughtlessly pressed close to my side. "We can handle it. Just…you should just rest."

And we're back to the resting thing again. I don't necessarily want to argue with Glenn, I know I've upset him, but I can't just sit back and twiddle my thumbs while everyone else goes around and picks up the broken pieces of our camp. If I was mobile enough to fight off walkers I can pick up debris or…I don't know, _something. _Before I can make my case, however, Glenn makes another sudden noise that draws my attention. Unlike last time, it's not exactly a gasp. It's more a shudder nearly giving way to a sob. I glance over at Glenn but he's not where I left him. He's already ten feet away from me and advancing across camp grounds. I frown after him, wondering what is making his strides so long and choppy, but I don't have to ponder for long. Not far from where Andrea still lies prone in the dirt with her sister's body, Glenn comes to a jerking halt, spine ramrod straight. Morales straightens from a hunched over position in front of him and so does Daryl, the former man's face confused and shocked, the latter's just annoyed. Glenn points at the ground animatedly, his voice rising in pitch and breaking at the top and, even though I can't tell the actual words, the emotion behind them in unmistakable. I follow the line of Glenn's arm to the dirt between Morales and Daryl, see a streak of auburn hair and a neck turned at an awkward angle away from me. It doesn't matter that I can't see the face. I know the body is Abby, my tent mate. That giving sensation echoes in my chest again, feeling sharper, like the fissure is widening into the Grand Canyon slowly but surely. I tear my gaze away before the sensation can reach and crack my ribs, turning instead to Daryl who's scowling at Glenn.

A few choice words are shared, Daryl gesturing to the fire that's growing in size. He waves his hands around, throws them out wide and growls something in Glenn's face. But the younger man doesn't back down. He gets right in Daryl's face, making the hunter lean back, and shouts something along the lines of, "We don't burn them! They're our friends!"

My gaze flits to the fire at Daryl's back, the bodies crumbling to ash in it's belly, and then to the other side of the RV, where six corpses lay side by side, each with varying degrees of trauma but no less recognizable as people I've seen milling around the quarry. Glenn's voice echoes in my head. "_They're our friends!"_

Were, I want to say. _Were _our friends. They're gone now but Glenn apparently still believes they deserve more than a Viking's funeral. I'm not exactly in agreement but I'm not going to argue again. I've seen that it's pointless.

Daryl has seemingly reached the same conclusion because he bends down and grabs Abby's left arm, Morales stooping to grab the right, and they drag her to the other side of the RV. As they pass twenty feet in front of me, Abby's head flops to the side and I'm abruptly staring into her slack face. What I see makes my stomach churn and that feeling _isn't _as removed as I would have hoped. Abby's eyes are wide and milky, pale depths gazing into nothingness. There are scratches along her cheeks, deep gouges that no longer bleed, still a deep scarlet color. Cartilage juts out of her caved in nose, an island of white in a sea of red. And…and her chin and lower jaw are missing, tongue dangling towards her throat. I think about how the woman was so loud and boisterous before, how she could talk and joke for hours. The sudden urge to laugh and scream at the same time wells in me, so abrupt through the haze, but my body can't settle on one reaction so I'm stuck in the no man's land in between, silent with my throat clenched tight.

"Ya reap what ya sow!"

I blink at Daryl's words, loud and grating. The two men have dropped Abby's body to the ground and the hunter has a sneer on his face, not for anyone particular, just for the world in general.

Morales furrows his brow and dusts off his hands. "Shut up man. That isn't even fucking funny."

I don't think I've ever heard Morales curse. For some reason, that little tidbit throws my already unbalanced world even more off kilter.

Daryl, however, doesn't seem to be fazed. He just shoves away from the older man and growls deep in his chest. "Ya'll left my brother for dead!" he shouts and the mention of Merle has me freezing mid breath. Morales has the decency to look a little guilty but Daryl is having none of it, scowling so harshly I have this irrational fear his face is going to stick like that, pointing at the row of bodies on the right side of the Winnebago. "Ya had this comin!"

Without another word, he stalks off to God knows where, bending down to retrieve the pickaxe prone on the ground as he goes. Few people follow him with their eyes; most just ignore him. I settle for a little of both, eyes pinned to his back but not seeing a thing beyond the image of his contorted scowl in my head, faulty along the edges, like it's just about to break.

"_Ya'll left my brother for dead!"_

Now that I think about it…I haven't seen Merle all morning. Not that I've been looking but the older Dixon is hard to fucking miss. His absence can only mean one thing.

Merle didn't come back with the rest of them. And the only reason Daryl wouldn't drag his brother back is if…there was nothing left to salvage.

The knowledge doesn't bring tears to my eyes. I don't break down and sob. Instead, I turn around and limp back towards my previous seat, ignoring the dingy length of steel I've left in the dirt as I collapse back onto a half rotten log. I calmly watch as people pass me, dragging bodies, dragging debris, the stench of the fire reaching into my lungs and suffocating me. At least that's what I tell myself. I tell myself it's the smoke, the ash, the dust, all of these particles in the air that are making it hard to breathe, making my heart have to pump twice as hard, bruising the inside of my chest. I tell myself that and I try to believe it.

But when another shout rises into the air, frightened, frantic, and Daryl yanks up Jim's shirt—quiet Jim with a story like mine—exposing the perfectly circular bite underneath, I know that I'm lying to myself.

The hits just keep on fucking coming and the haze I'm still wading through does nothing to lessen the feeling that, somehow, I have a part to be blamed for in all of this.

If only I didn't antagonize Merle, Daryl would still have a brother.

If only I was fast enough, strong enough, not so _weak, _I could have saved Abby, Jim, _**Amy.**_

If only.

If only.

* * *

><p>Daryl doesn't see what the arguing is about. It's pretty fuckin black and white if you asked him. Infected and non-infected. Walker and human. There is no in between. There is no <em>gray <em>area. He doesn't understand the frettin everyone's goin through. The man, Jim, was as dead as the bodies burnin a few yards away. His fate would be no different.

"What are we going to do?" the black woman who Daryl can't name asks. She's the one that had called Jim out on the bite. By the way she was wringin her hands, you'd think she's the one that got him bit.

No one answers her. Not one of the eight other people huddled up ten yards away from the RV, discussin the man sittin on the Winnebago's rear bumper. The silence grates on Daryl, makes him feel antsy, and he blurts out his opinion, the one option they had really but one people didn't want to acknowledge.

"I say we put a pickaxe in his head, and the dead girl's for that matter, and be done with it."

Walsh is the one to answer him, jerkin his head up with a glare that would level lesser men. "Is that what you'd want Dixon? If it were _you?_" he snarls. Daryl can see the judgment in his gaze but he's too fuckin tired to give a shit at this point. The hunter had done what he could to save people last night. If that wasn't good enough for the former cop then fuck him.

"Yeah," Daryl returns after a time. "And I'd thank ya while ya did it." Which isn't exactly true. Or maybe it is. Daryl doesn't know; hasn't given his inevitable death much thought. All he's worried bout is the moment he's breathin in. If in the next minute he gets bit well…he'd deal with it then but he ain't gonna throw himself into no geek's arms. He's gonna fight to the goddamn last.

Walsh scoffs and the conversation picks up again without Daryl. It goes back and forth for a while, between Grimes and Walsh, the CDC and Fort Benning. It's all bullshit. There's no cure and there's sure as hell no such thing as safety. What did these people not understand bout _end of the freakin world? _At one point, Daryl just gets tired of the fuckin crap. These dumb asses keep talkin like there's an option B, belly achin over this _one _man! A part of Daryl, deep down, feels sorry for the bastard, havin drawn the short straw and bein dealt a death sentence. But mostly, Daryl is getting goddamn pissed off all over again. Grimes has been arguin to save Jim for nearly ten minutes now, even though everyone knows it's futile. Fuckin Merle got ten _seconds _of consideration before he was dealt _his _death sentence. It's not fuckin fair. It's fuckin _bullshit. _And before, after hearin what happened to Audrey…Daryl kind of understood. But now…with all these people cryin bout their sisters and their _friends…_like Daryl isn't in the same goddamn boat…it sets Daryl bones shiftin. Merle is _**gone. **_God knows where. Hurt, probably sick, maybe dead. And no one gives two shits. But here they all are, debatin on goin 100 fuckin miles across the state in search of a pipe dream.

Daryl is fed up. With all of it.

"You go lookin for asprin," he speaks up, interruptin Grimes. The former cop blinks at him but Daryl doesn't give him the time to respond. "Do whatever bullshit ya need to do." He adjusts his grip on the pickaxe in his hands and whips around, fixin his gaze on the doomed man crouched on the end of the RV. Advancin forward, he hefts the pickaxe up and shouts, "Someone needs to have some fuckin _balls _to take care of this damn problem!"

He doesn't make it within five feet of Jim before Walsh is divin in front of him and there's the telltale click of a loaded gun right at the base of his skull. Daryl pants harshly, pickaxe poised over his shoulder, sweat drippin of the end of his nose.

"We don't kill the _living,_" Grimes says firmly, barrel of his revolver brushin the shell of Daryl's ear. The hunter bares his teeth in a sneer and turns around slowly, droppin the pickaxe cuz he knows he ain't got nowhere to go.

"That's funny," he growls. "Comin from a man who just put a gun to my head."

Walsh snorts behind him. "Dixon put it down. I ain't gonna ask you twice."

Daryl turns to look at the bastard and then back at Grimes. Both men wear stern, no nonsense expressions. They ain't backin down and he's got no choice, caught between a rock and a hard place. Scowlin, Daryl stabs the pickaxe into the ground and stalks off without a backwards glance. "Ain't even worth the goddamn trouble," he throws over his shoulder. "He'll be dead soon enough." Someone grumbles after him to just shut the fuck up but Daryl pays them no mind. He just walks away, skirtin around the blonde chick and her dead sister, tryin not to think of his own lost brother.

It's a little hard, however, when that goddamn fuckin kid just pops up right in front of him, bandaged and bruised and bloodied, Merle's fingerprints and knuckles still imbedded in her skin. She's sittin back on that log again but this time, she ain't starin into mid air. She's starin right _at him, _green eyes locked on his face. The emerald orbs are still uncharacteristically flat, dull like dingy glass, but they look more focused now, not as lost. Daryl squirms under their scrutiny, rememberin how she sided with him bout the dead blonde girl and contrastingly how she basically cursed him the night before. He knows the kid's fucked up, knows that the blonde chick had been her friend. Daryl had seen how the kid reacted last night, how she had collapsed beside the dyin girl and cried for a time before fallin strangely silent and limp, not respondin when Chinaman pulled her into his arms, frantic and fervent. Watchin her friend die undeniably fucked the kid up; Daryl just _knew. _She sounded out of it earlier: cold, detached. For fuck sake's, she agreed with puttin a bullet through her friend's skull without flinchin, talked about the girl dyin under her hands without battin an eye. For someone who balked at the animal traps he and Merle set up, that's a flag right there.

But it's not like Daryl can do anythin bout it. He'd made it pretty fuckin apparent he wanted nothin to do with the kid, on more than one occasion. And even if he…even if he wanted to change his mind, the kid was seemingly fed up. Not that he blamed her but he couldn't help but feel…

Help but feel…

_Feel…_

Jesus H. Christ.

What the hell is he doin?

Daryl abruptly tears his gaze away from Audrey and spins on heel, only decidin to check the perimeter again when he's already halfway there, never mind that he's checked it twenty times over. Anythin to get him away from those green eyes and the rest of these dumb asses and anythin to keep him movin, cuz if he's movin he doesn't have to think. And that's exactly what Daryl wants now, what he _needs. _Not to stand around and bitch over some kid or worry over her. She…she ain't his problem, ain't his friend.

The hunter tries to tell himself it's not disappointment that wells in him but just sheer exhaustion.

The lie falls flat even in his own mind and he slips into the underbrush, knife at the ready just in case, with traitorous half thoughts of poetry in the woods, soft smiles imbued with appreciation, and apologies.

* * *

><p>Seein Daryl try to put a pickaxe through Jim's skull is enough to get me up again. But not in the way it should have.<p>

Objectively, I know I _should _be up in arms over Daryl trying to kill Jim. I know I _should _be siding Shane's Fort Benning plan or even Rick's CDC pipedream. I know I _should _be feeling something—sorrow, anger, guilt—and to some degree I guess I do feel those things. But they're fading, melting away like the morning fog, transparent and insubstantial. I can't seem to grasp them and they slip through my fingers; slip underneath this slowly encroaching wave of abject hopelessness and detachment. The haze comes back more potent this time and I'm powerless to stop it. Soon, I'm underwater again, and the only thing that I can think to do is to help clean up camp.

The span of time between one blink and another finds me back at my tent. Or what _used _to be my tent. The grey material is torn to pieces now, collapsed in on itself, strewn across the dirt. In fact, most of the tents around me have suffered a similar fate. Our "homes" have been destroyed, in more ways than one. Now, we are homeless and we are hapless. And, for the life of me, I can't see an end in sight. Or at least an end that isn't drenched in scarlet or crimson. As I painstakingly pick my way through the wreckage, Amy's face and Jim's and Abby's and, because underneath it all it comes back to _her, _Kaleigh's does as well. It's a collage of auburn hair and blue eyes—oh no wait amber—and mechanic overalls with a cap pulled down to shade a brow in my head and there's no way to stop it so I just keep moving. Keep moving and don't stop.

_An object in motion tends to stay in motion and an object at rest tends to end up dead._

The majority of my things have survived the carnage. In what used to be my corner of the tent, my worn and weathered hiking pack remains untouched. Most of my clothes, piled at the end of my bedroll, are also intact. However, some of them are unsalvageable. As is my sleeping bag itself. Those items are alternately ripped or slashed or splattered in more crimson Rorschach tests: coffins and hourglasses with no sand, clocks with no hands and a scythe cleaving the world in two. Abby's side of the tent is just an ocean of vermillion and its patterns hurt my eyes so I collect my things as fast I can. Taking one last look at the ruined remains, I move away from the labyrinth of destroyed tents and back up to the RV, hiking pack shouldered and heavy. The progress is slow, I still can't use my right arm, my right ankle gives at certain instances, but I spend the lengthy time debating on whether or not I should ask Shane about burning the trashed tents or just get someone to help me drag the waste to the steadily growing fire.

Shane, however, is nowhere to be found when I look for him. By overhearing a conversation between Lori and Dale, he and Rick are apparently digging graves up the hill, ironically where Jim had started the endeavor yesterday under the influence of a dream. Or perhaps a psychic premonition. Well, lot of good it does us now.

Morales and T-Dog are similarly busy making sure the geek fire doesn't engulf the rest of the quarry. Armed with shovels, they throw dirt on the gnawing edges of the flames, corralling them back and making them docile. So they are also no to me. And I can't ask Glenn. Can't or won't, makes no difference. Can't and won't look him in the eyes right now. Standing near the firewood pile once more, I've come to an impasse, unsure of what to do next.

It's when the straps of my hiking pack have started to cut deep into the meat of my shoulders, when sweat has dripped into my eyes and pooled in the hollow of my collarbone, that something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. For a split second, I go rigid in fear, not recognizing the slow, mechanical motion in my peripherals. My instincts scream _danger _and _walker _and _run_ but when I turn to look…it's only Daryl.

He's standing along the RV's front bumper and to his back sits the red Charger that Glenn drove into camp two days ago, now gutted and scavenged. In the ten feet between the vehicles, a span of dirt and scattered rocks, lie two uneven rows of corpses, their blood having drained from their veins and staining the Earth below. Daryl stands amongst them, feet shoulder width apart and that pickaxe once again in his possession. For a moment, the scene doesn't click for me, I don't comprehend what I'm seeing, but then Daryl shifts his weight and slams the weapon in his hand **down **and a skull gives way beneath his blow with a slick _cracksquelch, _a spray of blood arching into the air.

Oh. Right. Damage control. Of course Daryl get's dealt this job.

A quick glance at the ground reveals to me that the hunter's only gone through three bodies; that there are seven more heads still intact. A part of me thinks he's got his work cut out for him and that same part goes to turn away, remembers _you ain't worth the goddamn trouble _and_ yer just like every other asshole here _and _fuck all of y'all! The __second __Merle and I get back, we're gone; _remembers every time Daryl's snapped at my attempts of friendship and how I'm _tired _of trying for fucking nothing. I nearly got fucking killed by Merle and for _what? _Daryl won't let me call him a friend and apparently doesn't need me as a partner. So fine. Fuck him right?

But then Daryl stumbles.

One minute, he's hefting the pickaxe over his shoulder again, moving on to the next corpse, and then he's suddenly swaying on his feet, stuttering to the right until he collides with the front fender of the Charge. The bloodied pick slides from his fingers and drops to the dirt, clanging dully on impact. Daryl doesn't even reach for it. He's too busy clinging to the car's hood behind him with one hand and his head with the other.

There's this moment, a fleeting thought that slashes through my mind, that he's been _bit. _The infection is mostly characterized by blistering fevers but there are also bouts of dizziness and vertigo, headaches, as your brain begins to fry from the inside. But then I get to thinking. And counting.

Daryl left camp three nights ago to hunt; he was gone before dinner. He came back yesterday morning and dove straight into Merle's rescue mission. And when he returned last night, it was hell on Earth. When was the last time he slept? When was the last time he _ate? _When was the last time he just wasn't on his feet?

I think about all of this clinically, objectively; just stating the facts. And then I look at all the bodies on the ground; all the work Daryl's been dealt while Rick and Shane dig graves and the other men mind the fire. If the hunter's three days out of sleep and food…he's probably on the verge of hitting the dirt. As if to prove my point, the hand Daryl has on the Charger's hood slips along the warm metal and he pitches forward, only catching himself at the last minute, finding his footing by thrusting one foot out. He lands heavily one someone's hand and it gives way with a sharp _snap. _I refuse to look down to see who it _was _and instead cock my head at Daryl himself.

He's wiped out. Even if he wasn't swaying on his feet, it's obvious as hell. There are dark purple half moons beneath his eyes; his face is an ashy pale color underneath all the soot and grime; the scruff on his cheeks and chin is longer than usual, giving him this haggard, hollowed look. I realize he needs help and looking around, there's no one else to give it but me.

That stubborn part of me doesn't want to give it; is fed up of _trying _with Daryl. But honestly…I'm too tired to hold grudges, too tired to be petty and think _you hurt my feelings so I'm not going to help you. _I'm not going to go up to him and ask for a hug or a shoulder to lean on but…he did save my life. Again. If nothing, I owe him a helping hand for that.

Thinking only of the debt I've managed to incur, I quickly fish something out of my hiking back and make my over to Daryl.

Even incapacitated, Daryl's on red alert, senses cranked to an eleven. I don't make it within five yards of him before his head's snapping up and his eyes land on mine. I pause for a moment at the diluted anger in his gaze but press on regardless, thinking as impersonal as I can. Just helping with a job that needs to be done. Nothing more.

"Here," I say in lieu of greeting. My voice is quiet and flat, no inflection. I extend my hand and open my palm at a normal pace, not an angry jab nor a comforting unfolding. The offer seems almost perfunctory, like I'm doing this on a whim and could just as easily _not _do it. Something in me, so distant I barely notice it, feels uneasy at the fact that…I wouldn't have too much of a problem walking away right now, leaving Daryl unsteady and sick. Glenn's comment of being in shock comes to mind but I ignore it.

Daryl's gaze slides from my face and lands on my outstretched hand. I jostle my fingers and listen to the crinkle of plastic wrappers. Half of a memory, snatches of lollipops and sharp claws, flickers through my mind but it's gone before I can catch it.

"Well?" I prompt when the hunter doesn't move. "Are you going to take them or not?"

The hunter looks like he's actually considering _not, _brow furrowed and mouth pinched. His eyes dart up to mine and there's actually confusion swirling in their blue—_right blue not __toowhiteblue—_depths, warring with a thinly veiled suspicion. I continue to stare at him blankly and, after a moment, Daryl reaches out and curls his fingers around the protein bars—my last ones—before pulling them from my grasp. The tips of his fingers brush my palm and I let my hand drop to my side, ignoring the warm, slick trails of blood his touch has left behind.

Still looking at me like I might have laced the bars, Daryl tears one open with his teeth and bites off half of it, traces of a ravenous hunger escaping through cracks in his usually stoic mask. "Thanks," he garbles around the bite after some careful consideration and realization that _no _I didn't poison them. The word is quiet and reluctant, like it's being wrenched from him against his will. I shrug and move away, walk towards the Charger and drop my hiking pack against its fender.

"You saved my life last night," I tell him without looking up. "A couple of granola bars isn't exactly lavishing you in gratitude but you look like you needed them."

Daryl doesn't correct or confirm my statement but I wasn't expecting him to. Ignoring the weight of his gaze on the side of my face, I nod towards the bodies at our feet, not seeing any faces, just splashes of color and varying degrees of rot. "Need some help?"

It's a rhetorical question, we both know the answer to it, but Daryl grunts out a negative. "I got it," he mutters and I actually manage to snort in derision.

"Yeah I can see that. Look, why don't you just let me deal with these here and after you've eaten you can help me drag some of the debris to the fire T-Dog and Morales have going. Sound like a fair trade?"

For a minute, Daryl doesn't respond and I try not to squirm under the intensity of his blue-eyed stare. Then I hear another plastic crinkle and the sound of chewing before a dull scrape as he hefts up the pick once more. I turn and see him giving me this inscrutable look, jaw working around the second protein bar. There's a granule of chocolate covered granola stuck to the corner of his mouth and it's in that moment that I realize I'm hungry too. The sensation isn't very potent though and, like much of everything now, it's easy to push aside.

Clearing his throat, Daryl walks up to my side, close enough that our arms brush. He looks me straight in the eye and holds my gaze. "This ain't for the faint of heart kid. Why don't you go find that little boy or girl, hell even Chinaman, and just sit yer ass down?"

His statement isn't particularly vindictive. In fact, if anything, I think I almost sense concern in his words. But I've had enough of the puppy eyed looks from everyone else. Enough of the coddling hands and shushing voices. I'm _fine. _And even if I'm not that's nobody else's business but my own. Not Glenn's and definitely not Daryl's.

Giving Daryl another blank look, I reach over my right shoulder and instantly come into contact with a familiar handle. I don't know when I picked up my katana from the dirt; I certainly don't remember strapping it on. It's not something I'm about to complain about though so I just pull the length of steel out of it's sheathe and decide not to ask questions.

The blade is still stained from last night, the previously bright blood now dull and dried. Inappropriately, I think I'll have to clean the sword soon before it rusts. Maybe after this. After all, no reason to clean it now when it's just about to get dirty again.

Tearing my eyes away from Daryl, I advance to the body closest to us. The corpse is slight, twisted in a way that has nothing to do with broken bones and more to do with arthritis. I can't see the face, it's pressed into the dirt, back facing me, but the blood matted silver hair is a give away, as is the ripped and tainted tweed suit from a different era. Shifting the katana in my hand, I wriggle my right foot under what looks to be a dislocated shoulder, gritting my teeth at the warm flares of pain in my ankle, and shove. The body flops over with a dull _crunch _and then I'm left staring into the slack face of Mr. Andrew St James.

The first thing I notice is that his glasses are missing. Without the wire-rimmed frames, his face looks large, more open and, if it weren't for the bloody furrows carved into his cheeks, his brow, his visage would appear to be sleeping. But the illusion would be a weak one at best. The elderly man could be nothing but _dead, _what with his chest cracked open like an egg dropped onto the kitchen floor, his entrails spilling out like red, thick yolk. And yet, despite the fact that I can see straight through to his spine, despite the fact that half of what appears to have been his heart is dangling out, despite the fact he died in the most gruesome way imaginable…

There's a smile on his face.

It's nothing big or grand; no teeth are showing. The corners of his lips are tilted up just slight, frozen with rigor mortis. For a moment, I think maybe it's a death grimace, maybe I'm seeing it wrong. But then I look down his body, past the gaping cavity of his torso, pieces of intestine and what looks to be a shredded stomach out in the open, rotting, and see there's something clenched in his arthritic, liver spotted hands. Tilting my head at the dirty and bloodied object, I quickly realize it's that stuffed dog he always carried around. The fur is more red than brown now, there's a leg and an eye missing, but a collar still clings to its neck and when I stoop down, eyes watering at the rank stench of gore, I see there's an engraving on the silver tag.

_To Lu-Lu._

_From Papa Andy_

I don't know who "Lu-Lu" was but…she must have been very important to Mr. St James if he clung to her toy even as he was being ripped a part. My eyes flicker back to his face and land on that little half-smile of his and I think maybe…I understand now. Just a little. Pushing myself back to my feet, I spare half a thought to wish that Mr. St James is in a place where he can see Lu-Lu again, where he could see his daughter Clara, the teacher with the big heart who taught children, once more.

_"Your heart. Your heart's like Clara's. My sweet, sweet, Clara's. It sees the good in people. And the bad. You'll need your heart to live. Need it now more than ever. Listen to it ok? Above all else, listen to it and don't let them take it from you. "Never let them take it from you."_

"Sorry to tell you Mr. St James," I whisper as I place the tip of the katana between his eyes. Beside me Daryl shifts suddenly in the dirt, _"_Uh kid—". I ignore him and suddenly shove down, steel slicing through bone with the familiar jarring resistance before the slick _give. _Twisting the blade for good measure, brain matter turning to slurry under the force, I carefully pull back and don't even bat an eye at the gore that follows.

"But heart's are kind of overrated nowadays," I finish and, not sparing a second glance at the dead old man, move on to the next body and the next, the hollow feeling in my chest making me think that perhaps my heart's already been taken from me.

Perhaps, I never had one to begin with.

* * *

><p>Daryl ain't a sensitive man. He ain't squeamish nor does he have a weak stomach. He's been guttin game since before grade school; blood and gore don't faze him.<p>

But watchin the kid move through those bodies, mechanical and robotic, not even flinchin when she put her sword through their mouths or eyes…it made his stomach churn.

He couldn't stop her though. Once she started, that was it. She didn't hear him when he called out to her and he wasn't bout to touch her. And not only cuz she had a lethal weapon in her hand. Daryl couldn't bring himself to reach out cuz…he honestly didn't want to see if his fingers fit the bruises on her. People always said he and Merle were alike, Dixon's through and through. Daryl didn't want to know if they were right.

The kid gets through four corpses before Daryl steps in again. By that time she's already dealt with an old man, an auburn haired woman who he thinks was her tent mate, and a man and a woman who he knew were a married couple. He thinks the man was in the Army or something; there's half of a tattoo left intact on his right bicep that looks military but Daryl can't be sure.

She's just bout to slice through another man but Daryl cuts her off, heavin the pickaxe over his shoulder and slammin it down again. Audrey looks up when he yanks back and for a moment, they just stare at each other, blue on green, neither saying a word. He sees again how her eyes look different, disconcertin, dull. But there's also somethin he didn't notice before. It's small, fleetin, like somethin swimmin under a foot of green frost, but it's there nonetheless. He can't place it though and every time he tries to look closer, it dances away, playin hide and seek. The kid blinks at him like she's waitin for him to speak but he's got no words. So, he settles for steppin back and noddin at one of the last bodies between them, givin her the "honor". After a brief hesitation, a small head tilt of appreciation, she steps forward and cleaves the head in two and Daryl thinks that if he can't stop her, he's at least gonna watch and make sure she doesn't turn that blade on herself.

He tells himself it's cuz he owes her, is indebted through Merle, but in the back of his head he thinks about that spark in her eye and how he swears it looks goddamn familiar even though he can't name it.

There's one last body to be dealt with and Daryl is gonna let the kid have it, doesn't feel like fightin for it, doesn't want to admit his vision is still a little shaky, but she suddenly freezes, body goin tense from head to toe. He wonders if she's had enough, or if one of her injuries has flared up. She still looks like hell after all, right arm bandaged and pressed closed to her side, right leg weaker and not properly bearin her weight; that's not to mention the bruises and contusions all over her, the split lip, the black eye, the broken nose. But she banishes all of those thoughts the second she begins to laugh. It's quiet and dry, bitter and brittle, and Daryl thinks it seems just this side of hysterical.

"What?" he asks. The sound makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, makes him uneasy. He opens his mouth only to get her to shut her own.

Audrey continues to chuckle but shakes her head in response to his question. "Nothing," he says and her voice cracks in the middle of the word. "Just…the walkers beat me to it." Daryl frowns at her and then looks down, tryin to decipher the kid's words. It doesn't click for a while, he can't see past blood and bits of torn flesh. Then he sees who the corpse is. Or _was. _It's that little girl's father, the asshole. Daryl never said two words to the man but he knew what he was. Knew the man used his fists instead of his mouth to speak. Daryl had seen the bruises on the little girl, on her mama. He just never said anything cuz everyone thought he was the same as the man on the ground before him, the same as his brother. What no one knew is that Daryl had more in common with the little blonde girl, Sophia, than anythin else. But no one knew that and, what's more, no one would believe it. Daryl was a Dixon, through and through. Trash and shit and crap. Garbage that ain't allowed in heaven.

"You know," the kid suddenly says and Daryl realizes he's been silent for a beat too long. "I threatened to kill him just yesterday." She reaches out and pokes at the man's half gnawed on face with her sword, pushes slightly and watches the head flop to one side. "We were down by the quarry—the women and I—doing some laundry. Ed was there too, sitting back, smoking, being a fucking bastard. At one point, he came to the water's edge, started some shit. He smacked Carol clear across the face."

Daryl can't say he's surprised at that but he is surprised to hear the pure _hate _in Audrey's voice, such heat after so long of speaking with ice.

"I had never said anything to him before, Carol asked me not to. But seeing that…I couldn't let it go. I got in his face, held him at the end of my katana. And I told him, I _promised _him, that if he ever laid a hand on his family again, I'd kill him. Gut him like a pig. Cut off his dick and his hands and make him suffer for all the shit he put Carol and Sophia through." Daryl can only see the profile of her face but he thinks the kid's almost smilin.

It seems she finished talkin and Daryl wonders if she's waitin for a response. He fidgets cuz he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if the kid's feelin guilty for her actions or not. In the end, he settles for, "Yeah well…if ya ask me, he got what he deserve."

For the first time since she saw who the last corpse was, the kid looks up at him and Daryl was right. She _is _smilin. The expression doesn't dissolve his unease though. If anything, the glimpses of white teeth below her swollen lip highlights the dead look in her eyes and Daryl feels his stomach roil once more.

"I couldn't agree more," she says. Daryl, for once, wishes she would fight him on this. For once, he wants someone to look at him in abhorrence and disgust cuz this calm, lethal, acceptance makes him think the kid's goin crazy, goin under. He wishes he could tell himself he doesn't care but now, seein her, lookin like she's been to hell and back, knowin what he does, all that shit bout his brother, her would be murderer, and still she is reachin out to him, he can't even believe that lie any more. Daryl doesn't know what to do with this information and ends up just gazin silently at the kid.

Before either of them can speak, there's a sudden rustle behind him and, turnin, they see a figure approachin. "Carol," Audrey says and the older woman looks at the kid with this haunted/scared expression and Daryl wonders at how much she heard. He then wonders how the kid's gonna explain her callous words but it doesn't even look like she's even gonna try. She just blinks at the timid woman and Daryl can't see a speck of remorse in her gaze.

"I…I wanted to…he's my husband," Carol stutters. She wrings her hands and glances down at the remains of her spouse. "I…I should be the one to do this." Liftin her chin, she holds out her hand to Daryl and meets his eye.

And here the hunter thought she was comin to pay her respects.

He considers tellin her no, like he told the kid, but then suddenly tosses the idea cuz if the woman wants to kick the bastard for some closure, he ain't one to stand in her way. Ain't none of his business. He hands her the pick and steps back. He'll admit that, despite the stubborn tilt to the woman's jaw, he doesn't think she has it in her.

When she splits her husband's head open and then keeps _goin, _till there's nothin left but blood and her half-crazed sobs, Daryl knows he's been proved wrong.

Pickin up his head, he looks for the kid, wants to see her expression, but she ain't where he left her. He frowns and flips his head from side to side, finally catchin sight of her limpin towards the geek fire, not even pausin to glance down at her dead friend and her catatonic sister. Daryl can't help but shake his head at her retreatin back, even though the motion makes his still throbbin head feel worse.

The kid and him keep colliding into each other, smashing tightly together, just for a few instants, before whirling away with the impact, circling an unknown orbit that's a constant crash course with no destination. He's gettin tired of the endless rings and wished that they could just fuckin stay _still, _if only for a little while.

* * *

><p>I'm not there to see Andrea put a bullet in Amy's corpse but I hear the gunshot. And I see the aftermath. I was sitting amongst the wreckage of the tents, picking through the spare things scattered around me, not caring whose they were, just seeing if they were still useful, when the echoes lashed out across the quarry. For a minute, I thought maybe there were more walkers. But I didn't hear any more screams; there was no commotion. If anything, it was too quiet. When Glenn stumbled down the incline towards what used to be our tents, I figured out why.<p>

He didn't say anything at first; just shuffled towards me and dropped to the ground, sat in the dirt, pulled off his cap, and stared into the trees. I didn't ask him what he wanted and he didn't tell. I also politely ignored the tears slipping down his cheeks, the salt I could almost taste in the air. We just sat there in silence while I rifled through belongings and calculated the possibility of actually patching some of the tents, some of the items of clothing.

"She came back," Glenn said after some time. I didn't have to ask who.

"You knew she would," I returned. I didn't mean to sound mocking or _I told you so. _But what was he expecting? People get bit, they die, and then they come back. Unless you took…precautionary or preventative measures, they _always came back._

That was the end of the discussion and, not too long after, Dale walked down to us and said that the funerals were going to start soon. Glenn nodded and got up, left with him. He didn't wait for me and didn't ask if I was going, if I needed help. He just left and didn't look back. I tried not to feel grateful.

Now I'm standing near the RV again. Amy's body is gone and Andrea is nowhere in sight. The rest of the group crowds around the fire pit, speaking in hushed voices. Well, save four people anyway. Jim, I hear, is in the RV, to keep him safe from Daryl. I try not to call bullshit because, if anything, we need to be kept safe from Jim, not the other way around. Shane and Rick are still digging holes and the final absence is Daryl himself. But he isn't far. He's standing a little bit away from the others, as per usual, leanin against the rusted out side of his truck. The tailgate gapes open and bundles of varying sizes lay stacked inside the bed. The sheets may be a different color but all of them bare the same spots of drying blood, the same haphazard shape and manner, as if someone tried to fold them correctly but just couldn't bear it half way through. I think I see a lock of blonde hair peaking out from one of them but I tear my gaze away before I can be sure.

Behind me, I hear the stirrings of people getting to their feet. Someone sighs, another clears his or her throat, and Lori quietly says, "It's time."

Time for the funerals. Time to say goodbye. Like it all fucking matters. It all kind of feels a bit useless to me but I've upset people enough today and I don't feel like dealing with any more of their judging stares.

But I am _not _walking up that hill again. Yesterday was enough. And this time I don't have Am—

The thought brings me up short and I find myself moving without knowing it, away, away, away. I'm not running though, and not only because I can't. There's just no point. I can't run from reality. Amy's dead and that's that.

"Ya need somethin kid?"

I'm suddenly standing in front of Daryl, my elbow brushing the warm side of his truck. He's looking down at me and there's this guarded question in his eyes, almost a suspicion. I don't have the energy to wonder as to what he's suspicious about.

Thinking about what the hunter's just asked me, I realize I don't have an answer. I wasn't looking to walk up to him, I was just instinctively moving; no thought process, just base movement. I shake my head at him in response but don't move away. Daryl regards me for a minute and I stand still under his inquisitive gaze. For the millionth time, I watch as a set of eyes dart across my face before dropping to the rest of my body, clinically cataloguing instead of anything unseemly. I know he's looking at the bruises his brother left, my fractured wrist, bum ankle. I wonder as to what he would say if he knew about the busted ribs under my shirt, Merle's boot prints along my side. I wonder if he would even care at all.

Daryl chews on his bottom lip, gaze glued on my ankle, before he meets my eyes again. "Ya goin up?" he asks, jerking his head towards the hill where Rick and Shane are digging graves. I shrug and then nod, look away and then back into his face.

"I guess," I say. Daryl hums and then averts his gaze. It's like we're playing pinball and our eyes are the balls in play.

"Need a ride?" he asks at length. I can't help the small spark of surprise that lights up in me. Though I guess I shouldn't be. I must have walked over here for a reason, even a subconscious one. The truck at my elbow seems like a good enough one. Still, I can't say I was exactly expecting Daryl to offer.

I'm not about to turn it down though.

"Sure."

The hunter nods and then goes to turn away, to slip into the driver's seat, but jerks to a stop at the last second. His body abruptly goes rigid and I here the air hiss sharply through his teeth. I frown at the way his face goes pale under the dirt on his skin and ask him what's wrong. He doesn't answer me right away and he doesn't look me in the eye. It's not until I realize he's staring at my arm that I understand his sudden tension.

"It's not a bite."

Daryl's eyes snap up to mine and I can the skepticism in them, can almost see Jim's reflection cascade through their twin pools. Reaching up, I pull on one of the ends of the hastily made bandage, gritting my teeth against the pain as the scrap of fabric flutters to the floor. "Got shot," I say, switching my gaze from Daryl's face to the furrow in my arm. It's no longer bleeding but the gash is deep and the scab looks tentative at best. It looks deep enough to probably need stitches. The skin around it also looks slightly red and I spare half a thought for infection before I look up to see Daryl's expression.

It's not as closed off as I was expecting but it's still not easy to read. The most I can glean is that Daryl looks vaguely pissed at the sight and I can't even begin to think why that is.

"What happened?" His voice is low and controlled though, belaying the heat in his eyes. I drop my gaze to the wound again, rolling my shoulder, half to shrug at his question and half to see if I could get it to bleed again.

"Shane was trying to put this walker down. I got in the way. Not that big of a deal. It barely grazed me," I tell him and I'm being honest. It's _not _that big of a deal. Carol and Sophia are still alive and that geek is nothing but ash now. Win-win as far as I can see.

"_Walsh _put a bullet in you?" he growls. The heat in his eyes is suddenly in his voice now and it confuses me. I frown up at the hunter and can't understand the scowl on his face.

"Not technically. As I said, it just grazed me. Why? It's not like I was in pristine condition before." I lift my arm and wave it in Daryl's face. The hunter flinches and it's in that moment, that split second, that I see the guilt in his visage as he stares at the bandaged appendage, as his gaze clicks back to my face and lands on the split lip his brother gave me.

He knows.

He knows what Merle did.

I don't know how, I mean I know I shouted something to the effect of blaming Merle last night, but he couldn't have figured it out because of that. Someone told him. I wonder when. I wonder if it was before or after they didn't find Merle, if the knowledge was meant to be a warning or a consoling gesture.

_You know your brother tried to kill Audrey. You better keep him in line when we find him._

_You know your brother tried to kill Audrey. He was a menace. Perhaps this is for the best._

Daryl doesn't respond. He just whips around and stalks the few feet to his door, wrenching it open and slamming it behind him once he's in the driver's seat. I think I might have just squandered my ride up but then he sticks his head out the window and barks if I want to get it, I'd better do it quick. I don't have to be told twice. As fast as I can, I skirt around the bed of the truck, ignoring the flash of blonde hair glinting in the sun, and slip into the passenger's side of the truck. The second the door clicks shut behind me, Daryl is throwing the vehicle in drive and were lurching up the road without a second of preamble. I turn and look out the back window, to see if everyone else is following, but the truck's kicking up too much dirt and all I can do is trace patterns in the dust clouds we leave in our wake.

The ride up doesn't take that long; three, maybe four minutes tops. Daryl doesn't say a single word the entire ride up. That's more than fine with me. In the few silent, spare seconds, I find myself curiously looking around the cab of Daryl's truck. There isn't much to look at. The seat is a long bench, customary of older model vehicles. The dark blue upholstery is cracked and faded, sharp edges digging into the bare undersides of my thighs. The dashboard is no better, bleached by the sun, bearing the scars of years of use. Absentmindedly, I reach out and trail my fingers across one long slash, the tips of my fingers bumping along what looks to be a stab wound. Huh. I kind of want to ask Daryl what happened but the urge is a small one, overshadowed by my desire for silence. Still, I'm curious as to what could make someone so angry that they'd stab the dashboard of a truck. The ghost of a smirk pulls at my lips as I envision some country girl named Mary Sue or Anna Beth pissed enough to spit fire, lashing out with a blade—because all country girls carried knives right?—as Daryl booted them from his truck. Then that smirk withers and dies because who am I to speculate on Daryl's past life, love life or non? It's none of my business. I'm not his friend, his partner, his _anything. _The two of us are just fellow survivors; the only thing we have in common is that we don't know when to give the fuck up and roll over. The world's gone to shit and we're still going through the motions: breathe in and out, heartbeat _ba-dump ba-dump, _keep moving though there's no were to go. Two fighting, fucked up creatures that don't know the battle's long over; that can't admit we're all just waiting in line for slaughter.

At one point, Daryl swings the truck around and backs the rest of the way up the hill. You wouldn't know it if your eyes were closed though. He drove just as well craning around to stare behind him as he did gazing out the windshield. The position was a little more uncomfortable, Daryl had to sling an arm across the back of the bench seat, twist his neck and lean his body in my direction, but it worked. I try to stay as close to the window as possible, give the hunter the space he always needed, but I can't help but let my eyes rove over the corded arm inches from my face. Sweat covers every inch of skin that dirt does not but there's this one spot, on the inside of his arm, just below his armpit, that's darker than the other places. For a moment, there's this flare of memory in my head: a flat blue lake, warm leather between my fingers, Daryl at my elbow and a _Hymn Before Action _echoing in the air between us.

It's a tattoo. I've seen it before, down at the quarry lake, a brief flash as he crawled up onto the boulder beside me. It's not very large nor is it that intricate. Just a few black lines that come together in harsh points and stark shapes. I tilt my head at the rearing demon and wonder again as to what's the story behind the ink but, like the slashed dashboard, I let the question go unasked. We all have our devils after all.

The jarring stop as Daryl slams the truck into park pulls me from my musings. I blink and lift my gaze to the hunter's face, only to find him staring back at me. His arm is still outstretched between us and he switches his eyes from me to the image etched into his skin and back again. He drops his arm quickly and throws open his door. "We're here," he grunts before he's swinging out of the car and shutting the door harshly behind him. I sit there in silence for a few minutes before I follow him outside.

Daryl messes around with something near the bed of the truck and I contemplate going up to him but I find myself drawn to the holes Shane and Rick have dug. They're haphazard and uneven, each a different width and depth. The edges crumble as I skirt around them and I blankly watch the dry dirt tumble into the dark holes, down into the center of the earth, into molten magma and mantle and all the way out through China. A cleared throat draws my attention and I look up to see Shane on the other side of the grave I'm balancing on. The former cop is drenched in sweat, his police academy tee clinging wetly to his skin, covered in soil. There's a smear of dirt on his cheek and his eyes are as dark as the hole we're straddling, deep and fathomless. He tilts his head at me and I see the unspoken question in his gaze: _Are you all right?_

The thought makes me smile and I nod at him, as if he had voiced his inquiry aloud. My response doesn't mollify him though and Shane frowns at my expression and that's when I realize my face feels kind of funny. I try to widen my smile but the sensation gets worse. It's like my mouth and cheeks are covered in cement, heavy and stiffening. I wiggle my jaw but the muscles in my face seem numb and no matter what I try, I can't get them to cooperate. After some time, I give up and just let my face go slack. Shane's frown deepens at that but before we can get into this tedious conversation, murmured voices reach us and we both turn to see the rest of camp crest the hill.

Show time.

Lori is the first in sight, Carl at her side, blue eyes wet as he clings to her hand. Glenn is next and after him follows a trudging line of people, solemn and single file, every inch the perfect picture of formal mourning. They are a funeral procession, all in line and in order, and that gets me thinking. Funeral processions used to be this big thing. Police escorts with flashing lights, a long black hearse, and lines of cars marching to the cemetery. People would stop to watch them go; some would shake their heads; others would cross themselves and murmur prayers. Either way, it was always an affair; even for the strangers casually watching the never-ending line of cars and people dressed in black.

Well none of us are dressed in black and the only vehicle in the immediate vicinity is Daryl's truck. All those other traditions are done away with now. Funerals are no longer the public events of _look at us; look at us and watch us mourn our dead like model, empathetic human beings. _Now…now funerals are shoddy holes dug up in the hills, secret places that no one will find and no one will remember to visit; if there's anyone left to remember that is. There are no black suits or lace veils; there is no reverend or priest or pastor to say, "_There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens." _(1)

No one will be shouldering coffins today; six men will not line up on either side of a pine box and bear the weight of the deceased. For a moment, I imagine Daryl and the rest of the men curling their fingers under the hot metal of the hunter's truck and hefting it up. The insane image actually makes me huff half of a laugh but I quickly shake the thought away, knowing now is neither the time nor the place for such musings.

_There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens. A time to joke and a time to shut up Audrey. Now is the time for the latter._

I drift away from Shane and the black hole he dug, limping back towards Daryl and his truck. The hunter casts me a glance as he passes me, going the opposite way, but we don't share words. He goes his way, walking up to where Shane and Rick are finishing up digging, and I go mine: right up to the bed of his truck where I heft myself up onto the tailgate. The metal groans in protest at my added weight but I pay the angry screeching no mind, just as I don't spare the stench of rot a second thought. It's just festering meat. Nothing more. Not Amy, not Abby, not Rebecca or Simon or Mr. St James. That line of thinking is what makes it easy for me to lean back, for me to not flinch when I bump into something. It makes it easy as breathing.

"I still think it's a mistake," someone speaks up and I lift my head from watching my swaying feet to see Daryl addressing Shane. "Not burning these bodies. It's what we said we'd do right? Burn 'em all, wasn't that the idea?"

The other man flicks his head irritably and sweat scatters off the tip of his nose, the ends of his curly hair. "At first," Shane replies sharply. "Things have changed." He stops digging and thrusts the end of his shovel into the dirt, leans on the stick and fixes Daryl with a steely glare.

Daryl scoffs and rolls his eyes. I find it curious that he's even saying anything. He's not usually so needlessly antagonistic. That's generally Merle's calling card. Daryl tends to just shut up and stand in the shadows. And yet, here he is, calling Shane and Rick out. It's just curious. I think maybe's he's had enough crap and doesn't see the point in being silent anymore. "What?" he goads, pressing on. Shane narrows his eyes and his mouth thins into a dangerous line. "The Chinaman gets all emotional, says it's not the thing to do, we just follow him along? Tch, that's bull. These people need to know who the hell's in charge here, what the rules are. If ya can't cut it Walsh…"

"Hey! Ya shut yer mouth Dixon or I swear—"

"Enough," Rick suddenly intervenes. Both men swivel to glare at him but the former sheriff ain't made of glass. He turns to Shane first and with only a look, the burly man subsides. Huh. I need Rick to teach me that trick. Tearing his eyes away from Shane, Rick then rounds on Daryl and by the expression on is face, he seems less than patient.

"Look, there _are _no rules ok? We're just trying to get by, same as you," he says and he just sounds so _tired. _Daryl opens his mouth, presumably to argue again, but someone else cuts him off.

"Well that's a problem," Lori interjects. All eyes turn to her but the woman is just as tough as her husband and meet's everyone's gaze head on. "We haven't had one minute to hold onto anything of our old selves. We need time to mourn and we need to bury our dead. It's what _people _do." Her voice cracks by the end of her little speech and she's dewy eyed. Obviously emotional, I don't know what urges me to speak up against the older woman.

"Actually, people have been burning their dead for centuries." Sixteen pairs of eyes whip around and look at me like I just materialized on Daryl's tailgate out of thin air. A thin and reedy voice at the back of my head is weakly screaming for me to shut up but it's a relatively quiet voice and easy to overlook. Unperturbed, I continue. "Many religions in Asia—Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism and Buddhism—even mandate burning as part of their faith. The Ancient Greeks did it and it was also very common in the Roman Empire. And what do you think cremation is?" I look from person to person, waiting to see the understanding, the epiphany followed by acceptance, but I encounter it nowhere. I just get that same appalled and disgusted looks, tinges of pity around the edges. I do one last sweeping gaze but when it becomes apparent that no one understands, I sigh and drop my eyes, taking up the hobby of watching my kicking feet. "Just saying," I murmur. Just trying to make this easier on you, I don't say. Just trying to point out it's not _wrong. _Just trying to be helpful.

When Daryl walks up to the truck, when he's the only one to meet my eye as I gingerly hop down so he can get to the bodies, I know I've accomplished none of those things.

For the life of me…I really can't find it in me to care. Bury the bodies. Burn the bodies. Makes no difference.

Dead is dead is dead.

I stand off to the side of the graves, away from the others, and it's only when something brushes my ankle that I realize my katana is in my hand. I let my gaze travel down the length of stained steel and at the tip of the swords resides two words, carved into the dirt. I had been writing something without realizing it, etching letters into the Earth.

_Memento Mori._

"_Remember you must die."_

Well that's funny.

I don't think I ever forgot.

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><p>Daryl doesn't know why he just doesn't <em>leave<em> once the last body is hefted out of his truck. He didn't know any of the people that were bein tossed in the ground; couldn't even give their names save maybe the young blonde girl, Amy, Audrey's friend. Other than that, he knows the rest as faces he passed but never cared to get to know. As the other survivors cry over the shallow graves, Daryl can't help but be selfishly grateful.

But, as it is, he stays rooted to the ground, set back a ways from the other mourners. He watches as Walsh and Grimes and the other men grab shoulders and ankles, lowering body after body into the Earth. Sometimes, Daryl even helps. For the most part though, he's a bystander. And an awkward one at that. More than once, he tells himself he's just gonna hop back into his truck and drive back down to camp. But he never does. And it's namely cuz of the kid.

When he and the rest of the men had dragged the bodies out of the truck, Audrey had not so gracefully gotten out of their way, standin a few feet away and watching impassively as the corpses were taken out one by one. But the moment they were out of the way, the kid had climbed back onto the tailgate, puttin her sword down beside her, and starin at nothin but her feet, kickin them like a child would who couldn't yet reach the floor. She hasn't moved since and every so often, Daryl will glance behind him to make sure she's still there, make sure she hasn't fallen into one of the graves or somethin just as idiotic.

It takes bout an hour for all but one of the bodies to be buried, six feet under and a rock set atop each mound as a makeshift headstone. The last one to go is the blonde girl. For a while, the older sister wouldn't even let them get close to her, cradlin the girl's body protectively, tensin something awful when anyone tried to approach her. Eventually, the old man in that idiotic fishin hat gets through to her and inch by inch, leads her to the last grave. When the body is just startin to be lowered into the ground, Daryl turns to look over his shoulder, lookin to see what the kid is doin, but, again, she's not where he left her. For a moment, Daryl goes rigid with surprise and is about to move away and start searchin for her, but before he can so much as uncross his arms, she appears at his side, materializin out of thin fuckin air.

From this distance, mere feet, close enough that if he breathes deep enough their arms would be brushin, Daryl can see the different hues her bruises take on, can see the edges _just _beginnin to yellow, like a fruit startin to rot. He can also see that she's not as lax and loose as before. She's alert now, eyes focused and spine straight as she can manage. He thinks she might go help the older blonde and the elderly man put the body in the ground but she doesn't. Starin as her friend's dropped into the Earth, the kid doesn't say a word, doesn't move a muscle. Daryl doesn't even think she breathes. For some reason, it's worse than if she broke down and cried.

The funerals end not long after that. Walsh is the one to pat the last grave down and after a few moments of silence, the people begin to disperse. The older blonde, _Andrea, _Daryl hears someone call her, is led away by the old man. She fights him at first, twists her neck to keep her sister's grave in sight, but the old man is insistent and with shushin words and a gentle hand, he guides her back down the hill. The last to take the windin dirt road back to camp is Chinaman. He starts for it at first but then pauses, glancin over his shoulder. His eyes immediately go to Audrey. Audrey, who hasn't taken her eyes off of the blonde girl's grave and has, somehow, walked right to the edge of it. Daryl frowns at the kid but then looks back at the chink, wonderin what he is gonna do.

Chinaman meets his eyes after a moment and Daryl feels uncomfortable seein the naked emotion in the other man's eyes, fidgets at the tears dryin on his cheeks. The two stare at each other for an endless eternity but at the end of it, the chink just casts Audrey one last look and then ducks his head and walks away. He doesn't look back; he doesn't call out to the kid. He just slips out of sight and then Daryl is left alone with the kid and the ghosts of all these dead people, the cicadas the only noise in the whole damn world. There's a spark of anger in the hunter—wasn't the chink supposed to be the kid's friend?—but it's gone after a moment cuz he's just too damned tired to maintain it.

Daryl contemplates leavin again but the idea is no more serious than it was before; in fact, it's probably even less now. He ain't bout to leave the kid stranded up here; he ain't that low. But it's not like he wants to stay in this makeshift cemetery forever neither. The sun's more harsh up here, more blindin and scaldin, and Daryl would be lyin if he said the neat rows of rocks on the ground didn't make his skin crawl. He wants to get gone and _yesterday. _With that thought in mind, he shakes the pins and needles out of his arms and moves towards the kid.

It's when he pulls up beside her that he realizes she ain't as quiet as before. She's talkin now, mumblin to herself, and the words are so low that no matter how Daryl strains, he can't hear them clearly. After a full minute passes, he finally blurts, "What are ya mutterin?"

Audrey starts like she hadn't been aware he was less than a foot from her. The garbled words abruptly stop and she turns to him with big green eyes. Save for a spark of surprise, the orbs are as flat and placid as marbles. "I didn't hear you walk up," she says after a moment. Daryl grunts and shifts his feet, shyin away from her a bit.

"Yeah. I got that from the way you jolted like a skittish buck." The kid doesn't rise to the bait and just stares at him blankly so he quickly adds on, "What were ya slurrin again?"

It ain't none of his business, maybe she was prayin, but he can't help but feel curious.

The kid regards him coolly for a time, not even blinkin, considerin his question. He's just about to come to the conclusion that she ain't gonna answer him when she suddenly turns to stare back at the grave before them. He hears her take a deep breath.

"It was nothing much," she says. Her hair blocks her profile from Daryl's gaze and he has nothin but her voice to go on. For the first time in his life, he wishes he were lookin someone full in the face.

"Just somethin that came to mind," she finishes quietly. Daryl chews on his lip for a moment and then releases it.

"And what's that?"

It's silent for a breath. Then, the kid clears her throat and sighs something. Cranin forward, this time, Daryl catches it.

_In this short Life_

_That only lasts an hour_

_How much - how little - is_

_Within our power (2)_

Daryl waits, thinkin there's more, but Audrey offers nothin else. He doesn't know what to say in return. He _wants _to say "_yeah no __**shit**_" or somethin like that but he stops himself cuz he know that ain't gonna help, knows that the kid's bein held together by god only knows what at this point. He _could _say somethin spiteful but the idea doesn't even sound good in his head anymore. He can't bring himself to snarl at her now. Not after all this fuckin shit. Not after she's sided with him _twice _in one day, not when she gave him _more _food to eat when he was sure he was gonna pass out like a pussy.

Not when she should **hate** him and not be able to look him in the eye, spit on him and want him gone, just like his brother. The thought of Merle awakes a foul taste in his mouth but he pushes it aside for later.

Daryl doesn't know what it means that the kid's not doin any of these things but he hopes that…maybe…when she comes to her senses…that she won't change her mind and look at him like he's nothin but Merle's little brother, the same type of asshole with the same poison in his veins. He'd say he didn't know why he hoped that but really, it would only be a lie at this point.

The kid is…different. Different from anyone Daryl had ever met. He can admit that. And, for reasons he doesn't want to fully inspect right now, Daryl doesn't want to push her away anymore. He'll say she's useful; he'll say she's just a kid; he'll say he feels responsible for the shit Merle pulled; he'll say he's just too fuckin tired to try anymore. He'll say all that crap and more and, while it is all true, there's somethin else there that won't let him be the dick he always is towards other people. He can't name or place it but it's there and he can no longer ignore it.

With that in mind, Daryl looks down at the grave at his feet, just as Audrey's doin, and says, "Ya really don't wanna win this bet do ya kid?" It's the first thing that came to mind and the only thing he could think of that wouldn't remind either of them where they are or what's happened.

He doesn't know what he was expectin as a response but a short laugh, soundin more like the normal kid that he knew, not the bitter, half hysterical chuckle she's been usin all day, wasn't exactly at the top of the list. As she quiets down, Audrey lifts her head and Daryl's suddenly lookin into _her _eyes: bright and sharp as emeralds, not dull marbles with nothin beneath 'em. It only lasts a moment but the fact that they could even look like that again unhitches somethin in his chest, makes it easier for him to breathe.

She doesn't say anythin back, doesn't quip or retort, try to correct him or admit defeat. She just smiles, thin and small but there nonetheless, and knocks shoulders with him. The blow isn't that powerful but Daryl isn't expectin it and kind of loses his footin. Scramblin to not fall on his ass, Daryl has half a curse on his tongue but when he looks up, the kid's already limpin away, dartin glances over her shoulder as she rounds the side of his truck. He thinks he hears her laugh again, light and normal, but he can't be sure.

Shakin his head, he goes to follow her but somethin makes him cast one more look at the blonde girl's grave and he sees somethin that he hadn't noticed before. Furrowin his brow, he squints his eyes and then squats down and as he does so, the image becomes clearer.

The rock that's bein used as the blonde's headstone is about the size of a brick, smooth and grey, like somethin ya'd find in the riverbed. And there, right in the center, are three words, scratched hastily into the stone. Three small words in thin, shaky letters.

_Amy_

_I'm sorry._

The last two words dig deeper into the rock and are much harsher, the last _y _looking almost slashed into the stone. Daryl bites the inside of his cheek, troubled at the sight, and looks over his shoulder but the kid's already sittin in his truck, starin straight ahead. He looks back down at the rock one last time and then pushes himself to his feet, walks to his truck. But those three words stay with him. Even as he slips into the drivers seat, even as he puts the truck in drive and heads back to camp, Audrey sittin quietly in the seat beside him. The words stay with him and he can't help but wonder if the kid had actually been sayin that poem when he walked up or if she had just been repeatin those three words to herself, to the ghost of her friend, to the dry air around them and to the whole world.

_I'm sorry._

_Amy._

_I'm sorry._

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><p><strong>(1) Passage from the Christian Bible usually read at funerals: Ecclesiastes 3:1<strong>

**(2) In this short Life by Emily Dickinson**

**Another disclaimer! The title of this chapter is not mine. I borrowed it from an amazing poem by Richard Siken. :) I claim no rights to it. **

**And thoughts? :) I think this is the most Daryl/Audrey we've had in a while...which is kind of fucked up O.O I apologize for that. XP**

**Still! Please remember to review! I'm already working on the next chapter and I REALLY want to know what you guys thought of this one! :DDD Please! I will give you cookies and virtual hugs!**

**I really love all of my readers and I hope you guys are ready cuz shit's starting to get real here at Bite of a Blade ;)**

**Until next time guys!**

**~Shadows**


	23. What's So Good About Picking Up the Piec

**Holy fuck. I am SO sorry about this long ass wait. This chapter, LITERALLY, kicked me in the ass. Between the major writer's block I was having and college suddenly rearing it's ugly head, I was hard pressed to actually get this written :/ I hope it's still acceptable. And I post in celebration of SEASON 3! :D**

**BUT! We've exceeded 200 reviews guys! :D That's fucking amazing and I thank every single one of you for staying with this story. I love you all. Seriously. *hugs* Thank you. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OC and her plot. Some dialogue belongs to the amazing writers of TWD as do most of these phenomenal characters.**

**Warning: Language and gore.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 23: What's So Good About Picking Up the Pieces? <strong>

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><p>"Ya stayin or what kid?"<p>

Daryl's voice seems distant, removed and, when I turn towards the sound, he doesn't look much closer. It's like I'm looking through the wrong end of binoculars: everything is miles and miles away.

"What?" I return. Even my voice is muffled.

The hunter purses his lips and I can see the tell tale flash of annoyance in his eyes. He looks as if he's going to spit something at me but curiously doesn't. Instead, he turns away and fumbles for something I can't see. I blink and Daryl's gone; I blink again and he's back again, only this time on my other side. Hot, stale air tickles my right cheek and I look up into Daryl's face, confused. He doesn't say anything, just jerks his head in that _come on _gesture of his. I don't even think to question him, to wonder why. I don't care. He says go I'll go. He says come I'll do that too. He says _ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble _and I'll laugh and say I've always known that and he's a little behind the times. What's the difference? What's it matter?

There is none and it doesn't.

There never was and it never did.

Funny. It took me a while to figure that out.

Without thinking or caring, I do what Daryl has asked in not so many words. I shift and move, go to follow him, but when I do, the ground falls out from under me and I stumble. Pain flares like bursts of fireworks behind my eyes, so many places I can't pinpoint a single color, a single location. I pitch forward, unable to stop myself, too lost in the too sharp sensations, and wait to hit the dirt. Except I don't. For a moment I think I do because I slam into something warm and solid and hard, but when I lift my head, I'm not parallel to the ground and it's not soil in my mouth. I'm vertical still; I can tell because the sky is too blue above me. And there's fabric against my lips, tasting like salt, like blood, like metal. I find myself staring into Daryl's river blue eyes and it doesn't click that I'm propped up against his chest until I feel his heartbeat vibrate on my teeth.

"Sorry," I mutter. The word feels funny in my mouth, too small, too insubstantial, but Daryl doesn't seem to think so. He just grunts and nods, accepts what I've said as he pushes me away. I sway on my feet the second he lets go and he curses. I wonder if I've stepped on him and go to apologize again but he doesn't let me. His hand's on my elbow suddenly and I wince as his fingers press into the bruises his brother left behind. I don't think I made any noise but Daryl's grip relaxes like I did and when he drags me along after him, he's not nearly as harsh as the day he first dragged me into camp.

The going is slow and I still don't know our destination. Nor do I much care. I'm too busy tracking the flashes of color as they float by and the jolts of pain that set them off. At some point, I pass a plane of glass, a car window or something of that ilk. My blurry reflection stares back at me in repose and I can't help the giggle that slides off my tongue.

"What's blue and black and red all over?" I think I see myself grin, making the bruises and splashes of dried blood on my face dance, before I'm pulled along again and trees replace the glass.

The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a tent. Which makes me actually stop and _look _because most tents were destroyed and _all _tents had at least some damage to them: splatters of blood, stray bullets holes, a slash or two or ten. But this one seems completely unmarred, pristine. I try to ask Daryl, the exact question I'm unsure of, but he cuts me off again, yanking open the unzipped flaps and tugging me in after him. Suddenly, I find myself sitting, pain and colors fading to pastels and dull pulses. Fabric slides under my fingertips, slightly course and very worn, and I look down to see a cot beneath my thighs. Tentatively, I trace the haphazard stitches sewn into the thick quilt I'm sitting on, the blue color nearly white with age and use. I pull my hand away and start slightly at the red smear I've left behind. Something small and akin to guilt settles in my veins but it's a hollow feeling because what's the difference? What's it matter?

I press my hand firmly to the quilt again and, this time, I don't even blink at the bloody handprint I leave in my wake.

A cleared throat draws my attention and I'm actually surprised to see Daryl standing over me. For a moment, I'd forgotten he was here. "What are we doing?" I ask. My voice is thin and quiet, barely over a whisper. I feel like this is a secret and I don't know why.

Daryl stares at me in that unnerving silent way of his and doesn't answer my question. He never answers my questions. I mostly ask out of principle now instead of actually desiring a reply. Still not saying a word, the hunter takes a small step towards me and then sinks down to my height. It takes a moment for me to notice that he's sitting on a camping chair, balanced on the edge as he simultaneously leans towards me and tries to stay as far away as possible. The effort must be tiring. I wonder why he tries.

"What are you doing?" I try again. His silence responds and I abandon the attempt at prying words out of him and instead tune into his actions. While his mouth might not be moving, his hands sure aren't idle. Deft and square fingers fumble with a small duffle bag, delving into its depths. I hear the rustle of plastic, the whisper of fabric and the rattle of pills. After a minute, Daryl withdraws his hands and clutched between his palms are pieces of bandages and gauze, a bag of pills and what looks to be half a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I tilt my head at the items, curious, as Daryl spreads them across his lap and then suddenly meets my gaze.

The older man says something to me but I don't catch the words. Once again, I'm struck at how haggard the hunter looks, the purple bags under his eyes stark and livid like bruises on his skin. I wonder if they hurt to the touch. I wonder if his eyes burn from exhaustion. Then I wonder am I? Am I tired? Should I be?

All these questions and yet I can't find one single answer. Maybe that should bother me. It really doesn't.

* * *

><p>The kid's really out of it. And he means <em>out of it. <em>Can't even stand on her own two feet or track a conversation. Daryl can't even comprehend how she's still conscious. Maybe it's fear; maybe it's apathy; maybe the kid just doesn't know how to turn herself off. Whatever it is, she doesn't even have fumes left and Daryl's just waitin for her to pass the fuck out already.

He's actually almost prayin for it.

"Gimme yer arm," he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. And yet, still Audrey blinks back at him like he hadn't said a word. Her eyes, dull and dilated, skip over his face like a rock over placid water, never landin on any one place for more than a moment. Patience worn thin, energy nonexistent, he finally snaps at her. "Kid!"

She starts at his harsh tone, bodily flinchin, and Daryl mentally kicks himself, thinks of accusin eyes and judgin looks. However, it gets her attention, _finally, _and her eyes become just a little more clearer as she asks, "What?"

Daryl swears that's all she remembers how to say now.

"Yer arm." He jerks his chin at the bleedin appendage, holds out his hand for it. Audrey looks down and cocks her head as if the blood is somethin she hadn't noticed before. She turns her arm from side to side, watches the red drops slide down her skin in fascination like it doesn't hurt, like she doesn't feel a thing. Daryl rolls his eyes and takes her elbow. He doesn't think about how his fingers seem to surround the sharp curve, how they seem to slot into some of the bruises imbedded into her skin.

"_Yer a Dixon boy. Got the same poison in ya."_

He knows it, he does. He goddamn fuckin does.

The wound is worse than he had thought, which was pretty bad to begin with. It's bout three inches long and an inch wide but the edges gape open like a hungry maw. Daryl thinks it's probably, at least, an inch and a half deep, more than just the graze he first assumed. The bullet's torn out a chunk of the kid's arm and she's gonna need stitches, there's no denyin it. Daryl just doesn't know what to do with that information. He doesn't even know why she's _here _though he guessed it was mostly his fault_. _He hadn't exactly planned it though and he didn't know if he wanted it.

It was just…the kid was too pathetic, too fucked up. She tumbled out of his truck like a newborn calf, would have face planted if he hadn't caught her, his hands on her—_too sharp, too prominent—_hipbones. It was when she was leanin on him like that, all lethargic and listless, that he had realized how light she felt, how thin, her bones hollow as a bird's with no muscle in between. She felt too fragile, too small, and all Daryl could think about was Merle's fist collidin with all those brittle bones, all that eggshell thin flesh. It made him sick and he pushed her away, feelin guilty as hell for too many reasons, but the moment he let her go, she was already on her way to hittin the ground again. She couldn't stand, couldn't even keep her eyes in focus; her wrist and ankles, ribs…there wasn't a part of her that was whole and untarnished. And she was just _there, _alone, lookin up at him in dazed confusion with those godforsaken green eyes of hers, so dull now, so lifeless, and Daryl doesn't know what came over him. One minute they were standin next to his truck and the next, they were already halfway across camp, the kid's elbow cradled in his palm and her stumblin after him.

Daryl should have stopped there. He should have dropped her off by the RV, handed her over to that old man in his stupid fishin hat, to Chinaman, to fuckin _Walsh _even. They were her friends after all. And Daryl was nothin. Nothin at all to the kid cuz he _made _it that way. With a little help from Merle too.

But he didn't do any of that shit. Instead, he dragged the kid to his tent—_his now, not his and Merle's cuz his brother's god knows where, maybe even dead—_and put her on the edge of his bed while he went rummagin for supplies. And all the while somethin in his head kept askin him why he was even botherin when not three days ago he stated she wasn't worth the goddamn trouble. Daryl had told that thing to shut up; told it that he owed her and Daryl Dixon hated bein in anyone's dept. It made you weak and vulnerable and Daryl also hated bein either of those things.

Besides, he also reasoned, they couldn't have anyone wanderin around with open wounds. Best-case scenario, it would draw more walkers from the woods. Worst case, they'd have a geek comin up from _inside _of camp and they've already got one of those in the makin. Don't need another fuckin one.

And the rest of the assholes were too busy cryin over bullshit. Too busy bein offended by the truth they didn't want to hear. Too busy chasin faery tales and miracle cures. The kid wasn't even on their radar at the moment and if he wasn't for Daryl, she'd probably be wanderin off somewhere, gettin herself killed and wouldn't that be a kick in the ass and all his fault too? Yeah, Walsh is the one that fuckin _shot _her, everyone else has ignored her, but they'd find some way to pin this on Daryl. Cuz he's a Dixon, he's Merle's brother, and he's got the same goddamn poison in his blood.

He's sick of it. All of it. Sick and tired of these people and their looks and—

Suddenly, the kid makes a noise. It ain't very loud or startlin, barely more than a sharp inhale, but it has Daryl snappin out of his thoughts fast. He looks down and sees that his grip has grown tight on her elbow, the skin blanchin white under the pressure. His fingers fall from her arm like it's burned him and he rocks back in the campin chair, abruptly all too conscious of how close the kid is, _where _she is, here in his tent, on his bed. Since she walked into camp, he's done nothin but push and push her away. How is it that she's even here? She really shouldn't be, he knows this, but every time he goes to open his mouth and kick her out, all he can think of is his brother's fingerprints circlin her neck, the smiles the kid used to give him, easy and no nonsense, and her words from weeks past that started it all.

"_What are ya proposing?"_

"_Nothing. Just a truce and…perhaps a chance to make a new friend."_

Daryl thinks of a little dark skinned boy named Ted and the thing called friendship that Merle told him he didn't need, that Daryl's convinced himself he never wanted.

Then Daryl doesn't think of anythin at all cuz this kid's bleedin out in front of him, it's gettin all over his bed, and that's the last goddamn thing he wants.

Not lookin up, the hunter reaches for the rubbin alcohol, the last of it, and unscrews the bottle with his teeth. The sharp, unpleasant smell of it stings his nose and makes his eyes water but he ignores it as he spits the cap into his lap and jerks his chin at the kid's arm again. "Hold it out," he grunts at her. He still won't meet her gaze.

For a moment she doesn't move and Daryl thinks she's not listenin again, lost in her own head. But when he finally looks up, her eyes aren't as unfocused as he assumed they would be. They're still flat and dull but alertness lurks along their edges, a keen, objective disinterest. Daryl finds it more disconcertin than if her eyes had nothin in them at all. He squirms under that look and then curses himself for doin so, settlin on a scowl and a raised, impatient eyebrow. The kid doesn't even blink but somethin shifts in her expression and she holds out her arm silently, eyes locked on his face.

_Your move _her eyes seem to say to him and _I'm tired of playin this game. _Daryl drops his eyes again and splashes alcohol on the wound without ceremony, tryin to ignore the kernel of guilt in his gut when the kid jerks from the pain. The entire time he's cleanin out the gash, however, the kid doesn't make a sound. Doesn't whimper or whine or cry. Hell, she barely even _moves. _But Daryl isn't blind and he can see the way the muscles jump in her arm every time he swipes a piece of gauze over the gapin flesh and he can hear the way she grinds her teeth. She's feelin pain and this hurts like a bitch. Daryl tries not to feel grateful cuz if she can still _feel _this then she ain't as far gone as he had feared.

Thought.

As he had _thought. _

Cuz he ain't afraid. He has no right. She ain't his friend. She ain't his anythin. He's just doin this cuz otherwise he'd have to face all those other sons of bitches and he's pickin the lesser of two evils here.

He cleans the wound rather quickly but it doesn't stop bleeding, it _won't _Daryl knows. It's too deep, too wide, too long. It needs stitches but the hunter doesn't know how to tell the kid and doesn't know what he's gonna do after he tells her. Unfortunately, the kid kind of takes the situation right out of his hands.

"Just stitch it," she suddenly says. Daryl snaps his head up and Audrey's lookin him right in the face. Unbidden, his eyes trace the swollen, black skin of her left eye, the tape on the bridge of her nose, the split in her lip and every abrasion in between. She looks like absolute hell. And that's not even countin the sallow tint to her skin or the dimmed quality of her eyes. It churns Daryl's gut to look at her this close up but he won't drop his gaze again. He doesn't even think he can.

"Tch. Kid ya don't know what yer askin for," he manages to grumble in reply. He makes his words sound as dismissive as possible, like she's stupid for even suggestin it, but really…it's their, _her, _only option. "Stitches hurt—"

"Like a bitch." She looks him dead in the eye with a flat expression. Her pale face betrays nothin, smudged with dirt and bruises but no emotion, dark hair a chaotic halo around her head. Daryl frowns at the way he can no longer read her. "I know. Been there before. But I'll bleed out without them and, while tempting, I don't think anyone else would appreciate that particular outcome."

Daryl tries and fails to ignore the '_been there before' _portion of that statement. "When the hell did ya need stitches?"

Cuz come the hell on. The first time Daryl got stitches he was four years old and fell off his pa's tractor. But Audrey…she's a city kid. More than that, she's a _spoiled _city kid. White picket fence and a mom and dad who bought her fuckin _sword _lessons to appease her boredom. There ain't no reason for her to be gettin stitches.

The kid almost smiles at him, lips twitchin ever so slighty upwards, though the light never reaches her eyes. She doesn't answer him. Just poses her own question. "Do you have a needle and thread?" Her eyes finally leave him, Daryl doesn't admit that it's easier to breathe now, and jump around his tent. He tenses when her gaze lands on Merle's bed behind him but her eyes betray nothin and neither does her voice. "If not," she continues nonchalantly. "I could probably go find one. I know Carol has a kit. I think Jacqui does too."

"I got some."

Her eyes click back to him and she hums softly. "Ok. Then let's get this shit over with before some other catastrophe happens. I'd rather not be caught with my pants down again if I can help it."

There's no true inflection in her voice but the words themselves are so out of character for the kid that Daryl doesn't even process them for a minute. When he doesn't move, the kid kind of cocks an expectant eyebrow at him and he scowls but gets up anyway. A part of him is thrown off kilter, off balance, but he's too tired to fight it now, too tired to fuckin care anymore. Three days, without food or sleep, in which he lost his last of kin and has almost died an uncomfortable amount of times. He's just done. The kid needs stitches, has given him the green light. That's good enough for him. It has to be.

He finds the needle and thread with some difficulty. He and Merle had made it a point to avoid major injury since the world went and ended so the small kit they had is stashed in the bottom of some bag in the corner of the tent. Daryl thinks it's amazin they even have it at all. But, then again, it's amazin they're even alive at all.

The hunter refuses to look at his brother's empty bed and what that exactly entails.

"So where'd you learn how to sew?"

Daryl looks up from where he's tryin to thread his needle to find Audrey curiously watchin him. Her eyes, still deep and green, blink back calmly at him, awaitin an answer. He purses his lips at her. "I ain't a fuckin housewife," he growls. The kid does that funny little not smile again and inclines her head at his hands.

"You seem to know your way around a needle and thread," she replies and Daryl would think her teasin if her voice weren't so flat, like she's just statin an observation. Scowlin, he returns his attention to his hands and finally gets the thread through the hole.

"Yeah well some of us didn't always have nannies at our beck and call kid. I learned to survive."

"I can understand that," Audrey says and Daryl thinks _no you really couldn't. _"Who taught you?"

It's on the tip of his tongue, the name, his response, but then the image of a disembodied, bloodied hand flashes through his minds eye and Daryl seizes up. He goes stonily quiet, rigid, and doesn't give an answer. The kid doesn't ask again and he wonders if his silence wasn't answer enough.

* * *

><p>I think I've upset Daryl and I think I should be sorry. I'm neither sure of the first nor capable of the second. Which finds us here: entombed in silence with the smell of blood and smoke and the lingering stench of Merle not three feet away.<p>

Merle. I probably shouldn't have asked that question, about the stitching, but I was curious. I didn't think to assume Merle had taught Daryl; maybe I should have. I frown at my apparent mistake. Well, it's too late now. Damage is done and all of that. I just hope Daryl doesn't take it out on my arm.

The needle and thread are both sterilized by alcohol now, the former also cleansed by Daryl's—_or maybe it's Merle's—_lighter. I find myself staring at the red-hot tip, wondering how much this is going to hurt. Can't be too much. I'm not feeling much as of right now, just distant pulses of something, a steady drum beat in my ankle, wrist, ribs and head. It's easily ignored as long as I find other things to replace it with.

Like the fact that I'm in the Dixon's tent.

My eyes skip away from Daryl and his needle at the thought and go about skimming the small room I'm in, four material walls and a zippered entrance. It's a lot bigger than I would have first assumed, a lot bigger than my tent. Or well…my old tent. The old tent I shared with Abby. But it's gone now and she's dead. I don't have a tent anymore. Hmmm. That's actually potentially problematic.

Anyway. Daryl's tent. Used to be DarylandMerle's tent. Spacious. Also cleaner than I would have expected, the side I'm sitting on anyway. The other side of the tent I'm going to venture a wild guess here and say is Merle's. I take in the unkempt bed, the piles of clothes scattered around that I can smell from here, a suspicious looking bag peaking out from under the cot, shadows of pills inside them. Yeah, I'm gonna say Merle.

I like Daryl's side a lot better. He has a cot, and while Merle has—_had, past tense—_one too, Daryl's is more put together. There's a pile of pillows at the head, lopsided and worn but comfy looking nonetheless. A sleeping bag is rolled up and pushed towards the foot of the cot and there's a thick quilt under my fingers. Besides the bed, there's not much else that Daryl seems to own. There has to be a duffle or two somewhere because I don't see any of Daryl's clothes. All I _do _see is that crossbow of his, propped up next to the entrance, right beside the drying rack that I'm all two familiar with. The silver contraption catches my attention for a moment longer than it should and I think I hear the ghost of memories seep from it's blood stained bars.

_"Hey Daryl? Where do I put this last piece? The rack's full."_

_"Eat the damn thing, I don't care." _

It's only been a few weeks since Daryl and I shared these words but God it feels like lifetimes. So much has happened since then. Since I thought that we could be friends. Since I _cared _enough to try. Since Amy was alive and Merle was here to threaten me and…and…and I'm just so fucking tired. I didn't realize it before but I am. Tired. Exhausted. My eyes sting and itch and my head feels too heavy. Maybe I should have taken Glenn up on that resting thing. Too late now though. He's not talking to me; no one is. And my tent's gone and Jim's dying in the RV and—

"Ow!"

I blink as a sharp pain radiates up my arm, setting my nerve endings on fire. Instinctively, I try to move away but a firm grip on my elbow keeps me from doing so.

"Don't move." Daryl clenches his fingers, though not painfully, and I find myself looking into his eyes before I know it. The ice blue of them makes me unconsciously freeze, from muscles to lungs to heart because the color is so _stark _and for a second I think it's familiar. That soul searing color, like chips of ice, shards of glass, a frozen lake, a winter sky, _Mom, Irina, Amy, blueblueblue. _It makes my chest hurt, constrict, like a weight is sitting on me ribcage and I don't like it, don't want it, and instead drop my gaze to where that small flare of pain is still burning.

The glint of silver in a sea of red is a fascinating contrast. It could almost be called pretty. Except the wound is too gruesome, the blood too dark and the needle a little too wicked looking. But it's still fascinating, the needle especially. It's curved, like a fish hook, the roundness of it so very different from what I'm used to, straight needles burrowing straight through flesh, making straight lines if you tried hard enough and sometimes not even then. An inane thought enters my head and I almost giggle, thinking I'm a fish on the end of a hook, dangling and fighting a useless fight. And if I'm the fish that makes Daryl the fisherman. That's fitting. He's a hunter after all; a fisherman wouldn't be that much of a leap. I don't think he'd wear Dale's hat though. That's asking a little too much.

Seeming to agree with me, the needle-hook bobs a little, as if to nod. The motion stings, but only barely, and I watch as the pointed end glides through my skin and out again, a piece of black thread left in it's wake. The stitch is perfect, even and straight, and I think about the botched jobs I've done in the past, efforts that have left ropy, thick scars. Aside from maybe social skills, there's not a lot the hunter doesn't seem to have a good level of proficiency in. I can't help but envy Daryl's prowess.

Daryl doesn't say anything in the minutes that follow and I keep myself from moving an inch. It still hurts like a bitch, just like I knew it would, but Daryl's fast and efficient: within ten minutes there are ten neat stitches in place and the gash has finally stopped bleeding. It burns and aches, the ages still tinged red with what might be the onsets of infection, but it's at least stopped bleeding. I know I should feel grateful but I don't; I don't feel much of anything. Nevertheless, as Daryl's tying off the last knot and cutting off the excess strand, I find myself saying, "Thank you."

The hunter doesn't even look up. He just kind of grunts as he reaches for the alcohol again and douses the entire upper half of my arm. I can't stop the hiss that escapes from behind my clenched teeth but Daryl presses on regardless, quickly taking my arm once more and wrapping it in a clean, new bandage. The white cloth seems too stark against my grimy and gory skin and I shy away from the sight, looking up at the man across from me instead.

"Thank you," I repeat. The words feel funny in my mouth, like _sorry _did, but it seems like the thing to say. Daryl's scowl actually makes it a little easier to breathe, so familiar after everything else has been turned on its head.

"How bout instead of thankin me you keep yourself from getting shot in the future kid."

"Well it's not like I was _asking _to be shot." I frown as I mull my words over. "Ok maybe I kind of did. I mean Shane did try to warn me but I was more worried about Carol and Sophia. There was a walker chasing them see? And I couldn't reach them in time so—?"

"So what?" Daryl snaps. He abruptly jerks out of his chair and walks three feet away, stands rigidly at the head of his cot. I can't help but notice the tremor in his hands as he clenches them or the way he seems to sway on his feet. "So ya just gave Walsh the ok to _shoot _you?!"

"To save Carol and her daughter? Yes." I cock my head at the hunter, my brow furrowed. I don't see what the big deal is. It's a graze, a flesh wound. So it took a couple of stitches; so I lost some blood. I'm better off than Abby or Mr. St James. Or Amy. I'm better off than Jim too, fever flushed and on his way out. My heart's still beating and I'm still infection free. That alone is grounds for celebration.

Daryl sneers, an ugly expression, and he looks like he's gearin up for a fight when suddenly…he just stops. Like literally stops, mid-breath, already inhaled and everything. He looks at me with this odd expression I can't decipher, eyes shuttered closed like curtains pulled to keep the sun out and I notice he almost flinches, as if he's been struck by some unseen force. Perhaps Daryl's more out of it than I assumed. I wouldn't blame him. He has all the rights to be.

The ensuing silence is thick and stifling. Daryl doesn't look at me and I can't look away from him. I contemplate asking what is wrong with him but then discard the notion as useless. Daryl wouldn't tell me even if I asked. I'm not his friend. I'm not his partner. I'm just the girl who _ain't worth the goddamn trouble _and the bitch who left his brother to die. In realizing that, I ask myself why I'm here, sitting in the Dixon's tent, on Daryl's bed. I shouldn't even be anywhere near the hunter and yet I'm in this place that no one's ever be within fifty yards of; in his _home _for lack of a better word.

Why?

The simple answer is because the hunter dragged me but things are never so simple. Yes, he dragged me but I let myself be dragged. I didn't care either way and maybe I should have. But I have nowhere else to go when I think about it: no tent, no friends, at least not at the moment. Amy's six feet under, buried deep in a shallow grave, and the rest of camp seems inclined to wish I were in her place. Perhaps that's a bit harsh but the fact of the matter is I have no fans right now. Daryl isn't exactly a fan, might be the worst of them, but we were never overly close. A few exchanged poems and botched attempts at friendship is all we have between us, all fueled by my idiotic desire to give someone a chance I was given long ago. Be that as it may, it hurts a lot less to see a disgusted sneer on his face than on Glenn's. I never had anything better after all.

The part of me that wishes I did tries to tell me something but I ignore it. It's not significant, can't be. What's done is done is dead and when I think about it, I've got nothing left but the blood in my veins and the air in my lungs. The thought almost makes me feel hopeless. Almost. If only I could feel anything beyond this submerged numbness.

Taking one last look at Daryl's averted profile, I realize there's nothing left for me here; there was nothing here to begin with. Without a word, I slide off the cot and move towards the exit, careful not to step on anything, careful to stay on my feet. There's the rustle of fabric behind me and Daryl clears his throat. I don't know what he has to say but it can't be important because I'm not important; I'm not worth the goddamn trouble.

I cut the hunter off before he can manage to take a breath. "Thank you Daryl," I say. Turning around, I manage to find his eyes, _bluebluetoofuckingblue, _and crack a smile so sharp and broken I feel like my face has shattered into shards of serrated glass. "I won't bother you in the future."

The older man looks like he wants to say something, face contorting around the words, letters pushing against his teeth, but before he can get any of them into the air, I whip around and duck out of his tent, striding away as quickly as I can on my bum leg. I can't be sure, I might have imagined it, but I think I hear the echoes of my name follow me across camp, through the winding dirt paths and blood stained ground. When I glance behind me, however, I see nothing but dry summer air and I chalk it up to wishful thinking and isn't that a funny notion? _Wishful. _I wish I may, I wish I might, nobody gets their wishes tonight.

_Amy wished I would just talk to her. _

_Glenn wished I'd side with him._

_Daryl wished to find his brother. _

_I wished to not have to bury any more friends. _

_I wished I didn't fucking care. _

As I pass the RV, the soil still soaking up Amy's blood, _crimson and scarlet and vermillion, _I think that wishes are for children and I haven't been a child in a very long time, if I ever was one at all. There's no such thing as wishes or faery dust, no second star to the right and straight on till morning bullshit that works in real life. (1) You get what life deals you and it's usually shit. You're lucky to get what you _need, _much less what you _want _and there's no room to complain. I understand that, learned the lesson a long time ago. I don't go looking for handouts or shoulders to cry on and I certainly don't go looking for shit that isn't real, like miracle cures and some vague notion of safety. Newsflash: it's the end of the world. Might as well go looking for Neverland. Tell Peter hi for me when you get there.

But I don't say any of these things out loud; I just walk on silently, past the RV and the road that leads up the hill and to the graves, the road that leads down to the quarry and that boulder on the edge of the placid lake and all the people in between. People don't reach out to me as I go and I keep to myself in turn. Perhaps they are all in shock. I think that must be it. Usually I can't keep them off me: _Are you ok Audrey? Do you need something honey? Would you like to cry this out? _Something in me says that isn't a good thing but I can't find it in myself to care. I always wanted them to give me some space, however good intentioned they were. Seems like I got what I wanted huh?

_Seems like I got my wish. _

The thought is mocking at best and nonchalantly sadistic at worst. It pricks in my chest and makes my head hurt, pound and swirl, so much so that I can't concentrate on where I'm heading until I'm right outside the ruined remains of my tent, trampled Earth beneath my unsteady feet and the smell of gore cloying in my lungs. I give half a thought to walking back towards the RV, if only to escape the sights and smells, but then decide _fuck it. _It smells and looks like this everywhere and I'll find peace nowhere. At least here the air isn't so heavy with smoke and pitying, accusing gazes. Here, at least I'm alone with a still silence.

Decided, I go to collapse on this half rotten log, about five yards from my old tent, when I see it. At first I'm confused, don't believe my eyes, but the longer I stare the more sure I become.

It's my hiking pack, worn and wearied and right fucking there, right where my tent's entrance used to be. I frown at the sight and make my way over, wary, like it might explode. It unsurprisingly doesn't but it does have a few surprises I wasn't expecting: pain pills and bandages, the last remaining dregs of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a canteen full of water and a protein bar. All of these items are stuffed into a large Ziplock bag, the plastic seal at the top old and torn and shredded. I bend down, wincing as my ribs protest the movement, and gingerly pick the bag up. The pills rattle and the liquids slosh together, the protein bar crinkles and everything is slightly dusted with this fine white powder, remnants of the bag's previous inhabitants.

I almost laugh at the powder, stark against my skin, thinking _fucking, goddamn fairy dust. _I don't know what drug it is; I'm not too familiar with the subtle nuances between powered cocaine and heroin. But I'm familiar with the bag itself. I saw it not half an hour ago, half hidden underneath a rickety cot and piles of well-worn clothes.

I look up but, as I expected, I'm alone. Nothing moves except the branches in the hot Georgia wind and it's silent saved for the subdued hum of the cicadas and the even more quiet murmurs of camp members up near the RV. The bag in my hand feels heavy so I set it down, sinking after it until I'm sitting on the ground, spine against the weak support of my hiking pack. My wrist, my ankle, my ribs, and my head thrum as I inspect the bandages in my hands, the handful of pills, the protein bar cuz I can't remember the last time I ate. I try to figure out what this all means, what this entails, but I'm too damn tired and settle for just dumping the supplies into my lap, reach first for the protein bar and then for the pills.

As I chew the first, the second waiting in the palm of my other hand, I tilt my head back and look at the sky, looking for a star and only averting my eyes when the sun threatens to blind me.

* * *

><p>It's decided that the group will leave for the CDC in the morning. Walsh dictated it so and Grimes gave his nod of approval. Daryl honestly could give a single fuck either way. CDC or Fort Benning, it doesn't goddamn matter. What these assholes were chasin was a pipedream and the poor sumbitches weren't even high. Daryl would pity them if he didn't hate 'em.<p>

The sun's close to settin now and Daryl squints against the orange glare, eyes burnin and so tired he can't even move off the bed of his truck. He knows he should, should probably find somethin to eat, make sure everythin's tied down, but he can't be bothered to do more than breathe at the moment. And he's earned it goddamn it; he has. Three days…three fuckin days of non-stop shitfests. Give him a fuckin break. With that thought, he shakes his head to clear it but takes a swig of the lukewarm beer in his hand, the last of Merle's stash, and tries not to think of how it tastes like blood and sweat goin down.

It took hours to get everythin packed and stowed in the truck. He had to disassemble the tent and wrap up all his belongings, all of Merle's, make sure he didn't leave crap behind. Then, unable to look at his brother's shit, he'd stuffed it into duffles and stuck it all underneath Merle's bike, tied down in the bed of Daryl's truck. It's all there now, feet behind him as he sits on the tailgate, all he has left of his last of kin. The thought awakens somethin sour in the back of his throat and makes him spit to the side, even though his mouth's too dry to manage more than a few drops, and it reminds him why he's sittin here in the first place.

He means to get the fuck out of here, get the hell outta Dodge, _again, _but this time he's goin alone. It's all he could think about this afternoon. The only reason he's here in this quarry, with these people, is cuz Merle thought it would be safer to hunker down in numbers. Yeah well, Merle ain't here anymore and it's cuz of these same people too. So, Daryl sees no reason to stay. He's got his bow, a few stowed guns; he knew how to hunt and track and kill better than any predator native to Georgia. He'd be fine on his own, _better _even. And he'd go lookin for his brother, try and find him, cuz that's what family did even if they didn't want to.

Half of his mind reminds him that he _had _searched for Merle and found nothin; the other half reminds him that was cuz there was nothin to _find. _Merle had split and hadn't come back, hadn't come lookin for Daryl. Or maybe he hadn't split at all. Maybe someone else took the van and he was still stuck in Atlanta, dead or alive or somethin in between. For the life of him, the hunter can't decide which is worse.

A noise sounds off behind him and he turns to see Walsh lordin over the dinner fire, pointin in different directions, tellin people what to do. It's mostly women around him and they follow without complaint, gettin food on the fire and onto plates, rallyin the children and makin sure they're all in eyeshot. Watchin the women cook, Daryl thinks about the hunt he did not two days ago and wonders whatever happened to the fawn he brought back. It's probably gone by now, wasted and rotted away, left unattended to fester in the Georgia sun. Normally, Daryl would be pissed bout a wasted kill. Now, he's too goddamn fed up.

The sun goes down quickly and leaves the quarry in a twilight bruise. Camp gathers at the fire but Daryl can barely hear them, no idle conversation in the air tonight. It's quiet and still, the clink of silverware and crackles of the fire really the only sounds to be heard, mixed in with a few garbled murmurs. It's like everyone's afraid to talk too loud, afraid to call attention to themselves, afraid to disturb the ghosts that are threatenin to choke them. Daryl thinks that maybe if they had been more afraid, more _vigilant, _last night they wouldn't have to be so now. But the thought is useless and so he forgets it and settles down with his back against the front tire of Merle's bike, starin into the dark forest before him.

He'll leave in the mornin he decides, like the rest of them. But he'll be headin his own way. He doesn't need these people and he never wanted them. He'll be fine on his own and even better when he finds his brother. He just keeps repeatin that to himself, even when the words stop makin sense, like when you say a word so many times it becomes gibberish. He keeps sayin it cuz it's the only thing he's got and he refuses to listen to the other voice in his head, soft words and a softer lilt, images of a blue lake and green eyes.

_"We, you, me, Merle, those "assholes" back at camp…we might be the only living, breathing people left in this godforsaken world."_

"_This might not be ideal and I hate to break it to you but…we are all each other has."_

Daryl chugs the rest of his beer and tosses the can away, watchin the aluminum can glint dully in the dyin sun before fallin to the ground. He thinks about metal in the grass and hidden dangers, remembers the traps that he and Merle still have set up around camp, metal and glass and rope. He thinks about his brother and he thinks about that fuckin kid and no matter how hard he tries, he can't goddamn stop.

If he's honest with himself, and he usually makes it a point _not _to be, he hasn't stopped thinkin bout her since she ducked out of his tent. It was that _look _on her face as she left; that smile that looked painful and seconds away from splinterin. It literally struck him dumb cuz one second she's sittin there, no emotion in any inch of her, and then she's up on her feet and leavin, lookin like she's about to cry. He didn't understand, didn't comprehend, and then she was gone, her parting words ringin in his ears and reverberatin through his tent.

"_Thank you Daryl. I won't bother you in the future."_

A few weeks ago, Daryl would have said _about fuckin time. _Hell, just yesterday he would have thought that. But he can't seem to achieve it now. Maybe he's too tired but maybe just maybe…he doesn't like the idea as he once might have. It's that debt he owes and the look in the kid's eye, the fact that his brother almost killed her and how she hasn't said a word about it. It was the culmination of all that shit, in addition to how no one's speakin to her, that had Daryl callin out after her and, when that failed, had him leavin his tent with a bag clenched tight in his hand and her hikin pack, which he had snagged from the Charger's bumper when she left it behind before the funerals, thrown over his shoulder. He didn't remember packin the bag in his hands or dumpin all of Merle's shit out but when he looked down all he saw was a haphazard first aid kit instead of the stash of drugs the bag used to be.

He hadn't known where to find the kid and, while he could have tracked her, caught up to her, he…he decided against it. What was he gonna say to her? He had nothin. The last thing he tried to say, the thing he had to swallow back down, was some shit bout Walsh and how the kid needed to not be so idiotic, let people just step all over her like that. But who the fuck was he to talk? His _brother _did so much worse to her than a bullet graze: sprained ankle, busted ribs, broken nose, bruised trachea and a fractured wrist. That didn't even include the part where he tried to throw her off a fuckin _roof. _So he had no right to say anythin, even if he could find the words.

That bein said, he went to the only place he could think of, hopin she wouldn't be there: her tent. Or what _used _to be her tent he discovered. It was completely destroyed, debris scattered everywhere, blood and gore and death. It wasn't until he was standin amongst the carnage that he remembered the kid askin him to clean up in exhange for helpin him take care of the camp members' bodies. They never got around to it and it seemed they never would. He didn't particularly care either way but it made it problematic to give the kid this shit. That was, until he heard her comin down the incline towards him, shuffled feet and labored breaths. He didn't even think before he reacted; he just set her pack down and dumped his bag on top of it before slippin off into the trees, doin his best not to make a sound. Apparently, he succeeded cuz the kid didn't even look up until she was standin in the middle of the ruined rows of tents and, when she finally did, it was only to gaze around in confusion, like she didn't know how she got there. Daryl wouldn't be surprised if that was the truth.

He should have just walked away then, he had done what he came to do, but somethin had him pausin, just for a moment. He didn't stay long, barely a minute, but he stood there long enough to watch Audrey take his things and sink to the ground, propped up against her pack as she ate one of the bars she had given him and pop some of the pain meds he had given her. It was weird but seein the kid like that, sitin in the dirt, alone, face tilted up to the sky with her skin ten different shades of fucked up…he almost felt like…like he wanted nothin more than to go sit next to her, have her read out of that stupid book of hers or just not say anythin at all. He didn't know why he felt like that and he turned away without figurin it out.

Ten minutes later he made the decision to leave.

Four hours later and he's still sittin here and he wonders if he'll see the kid one last time before he hits the road.

With the way his life's gone, he thinks probably not.

Ignorin the way the thought jerks in his chest, Daryl closes his eyes as he leans on Merle's bike, his crossbow a warm and familiar weight in his lap.

* * *

><p>"Hey."<p>

Glenn shifts uneasily on his feet, a thin shadow backlit by the camp's fire. I look up into his face and can only see the glint of his eyes, a flash of white teeth.

"Hi," I return. I seem overly loud in the otherwise silent air, my voice grating and harsh. Glenn seems to think so as well because he flinches as if struck, rocking back on his heels, exhaling thickly. Awkward tension is like a livewire between us and the hair on my arms rises with the electricity. My heart, however, is a different story. It doesn't stutter or skip or stop; just keeps on beating a steady, calm beat beneath my ribs.

There's a moment of silence where neither Glenn nor I speak but then he picks up the slack. "How…how are you?" he asks and god if it doesn't sound like the most perfunctory thing. Polite questions not worth their weight in air.

I give a small nod, as is the appropriate response. "Fine," I say. "Just fine."

It's a lie and we both know it. It's the opposite of the truth but neither of us says it. And Glenn doesn't even give me that skeptical look he would have before; he just nods in turn.

"Go…good," he stammers. "That's…good."

We dissolve into silence again and I can't help but recall all the times the two us—_used to be three but we're now minus one—_could sit and talk for hours about nothing, just enjoying each other's company. How could so much change in so little time?

Oh yeah. Death does that to a person.

My bones shift together unpleasantly the longer I sit here and I can't seem to look my friend—_former friend? Has it come to that? Do I care?_—in the face. That's ok though. He can't seem to manage it either.

"Did you need something Glenn?" I ask when the silence finally becomes too stifling, too suffocating. I barely stop myself from asking _why are you even here?_

He looks up at me, or at least I think he does, and clears his throat. "Uh…yeah. I um…I brought you this." He takes a step forward and I glance down in time to see him extend his hand, a plate of food now bridging the distance between us. It's not much, some dried meat, some peas, a side of fruit, but I suddenly can't remember when the last time I ate was, besides that protein bar. I think it might have been the fish fry last night and a discordant flash of images plays behind my eyes: _dancing flames, glinting blue eyes behind strands of spun gold, vibrating, bell like laughter and the silver gleam of __**friend. **_

My stomach rolls and I might have lost my appetite. Nevertheless, I reach out tentatively and take the plate from Glenn's hands because I can almost _imagine _the earnest look on his face, doe brown eyes and quirking lips. It's a peace offering, I think, and even if taking it implies an apology, _and I have nothing to apologize for, _I don't have the energy to be antagonizing. Not anymore.

"Thank you," I whisper and let the plate settle on my thighs. It was a nice notion, a kind thought. Glenn didn't have to walk all the way over here, yards away from the others and the fire, to where I'm sitting in the ruins of the former lean-to we used for firewood. I had walked straight past him earlier and I know he saw that, saw how I chose to be away from everyone but close enough that I wasn't completely alone, completely vulnerable in the dark. Yet another slight I've done against my so-called friend and yet here he is, offering up the proverbial olive branch. Commendable.

Amy's voice filters through my head, distorted and weak, a memory from that day we ate Glenn's candy and slept in the shade of a tree_. "__Anyways, he'll probably be over it before the end of the day. He can't stay mad for very long."_

Seems like she was right. I don't know why that makes me feel vaguely sick.

Glenn sways closer and I can finally see the dimmest outline of his face. I think he's smiling. "You're welcome," he says. He bobs on his feet again, a nervous motion, and I can almost taste his next question. _Do you need anything? Can I sit here? Will you come sit with us? _Glenn, always helpful. Glenn, always nice. Glenn, forever predictable.

"Ok well if you need anything else…you know where I'll be."

I blink up at him, confused and thrown for a loop, but Glenn just gives me a small nod and backs away slowly. His shoes crunch over the dirt and his face fades rapidly into shadow until he's just a black silhouette with a dull orange light at his back. I watch him turn and head back to the others; he doesn't look back once. Just another sign that he's still upset, still can't look at me, maybe has had enough. Maybe I should call out to him, repair what's been broken, if I can, but I don't. I have nothing to say to him. I'm sorry Amy died? I'm sorry I don't have the words? I'm sorry you can't see life for what it really is and deal with it accordingly? None of that seems to really sounds right and I don't have the energy to think of an alternative. I'm tired and it's been a damn long day. If I had a place to sleep I would have been unconscious by now. But I don't and so here I am, staring at the plate in my lap and trying to convince myself it's worth consuming. It's a failing endeavor and after a few small bites, I push the plate to the ends of my knees and tilt my head up to the sky. My tongue is heavy in my mouth and tastes like ash, like dirt, and the weak heat of the fire does nothing to warm my bones. The stars burn coldly in the night sky and I absentmindedly trace their shapes until my eyes cross and everything becomes blurry.

I don't know how much time passes, minutes, hours, but suddenly I hear a noise behind me. It's quiet, I almost miss it, but since last night—_Amy's scream, shadows in the dark, bloodblooddeath_—I don't know if I can ever **not **think the worst of every rustle, sigh, and shuffle that I'll ever hear. Instantly, I'm on alert, hand already over my shoulder and brushing the hilt of the katana. The haze of my vision clears and sound comes back to me in high definition: the beat of my heart, the sound of my lungs expanding, the crackle of fire and murmur of distance voices. Nothing speaks of danger but I know what I heard and I'm not making the same mistake that was made last night.

Taking a deep breath, even though it hurts, my lungs, my throat, my ribs, I slide the katana half way out of it's sheathe and glance sharply over my shoulder, eyes straining to see through the shadows. I see nothing at first, just trees and darkness, but then I hear that same noise again: a grating scrape underlain with an indistinct, low-pitched noise. Like a moan. Fuck. Here we go again.

I wonder how many of them there are this time: fifty, a hundred, a million? There were only nineteen last night and we nearly all died. How long could we hold off any more than that? Is it even worth the try? I'm inclined to say _no _but then I remember Carl's big blue eyes and Sophia's open face, her tentative smile. They're only kids; they haven't even lived yet. A part of my mind points out what kind of life is this—fear and running and death—but at least it's a _life; _at least they're alive.

Unlike Amy.

Unlike my family.

Unlike my friends.

It's something and it's something I can actually try to protect because Sophia and Carl do not deserve to be ripped to pieces even if I do.

With that in mind, I'm about to sound the alarm, call out to Shane atop the RV, tell everyone to get ready cuz here they come…when a curse reaches out from the darkness, muttered and quiet. I freeze half out of my seat, the plate of food teetering precariously on my knees. Walkers don't curse. Walkers don't _talk. _This…this isn't a walker. The realization comes quick and sharp and cold, a relief to the fire in my veins. This isn't a walker because I know who it is, can make out his outline now in the dimness.

This isn't a walker because Daryl's sitting on the bed of his truck, twenty yards away and near the road and there isn't a chance in hell a geek's getting passed him without his knowledge. The knowledge that it's Daryl and not Death near should be comforting.

It isn't and only serves to put a knot in my gut, a distant discomfort that I don't want to address.

Knowing that camp is no longer in danger of being overrun again, I sink back into my seat, my strings severed without the adrenaline to string them up. My fingers idly play with the plate I managed to save. Sweat beads along my skin, sour and slick, and the new bandages that I have wrapped around me—wrist and ankle and ribs—become damp and uncomfortable. My eyes are drawn to the pristine whiteness of my new wrist splint, stark in the darkness, the cloth thick and quality, much better than the worn ace bandages I got from Dale. I think about the pocket in my hiking bag that I stuffed those blood stained pieces and I think about the pills next to them, the empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and the half full canteen. I try not to, I really do, but there is nothing left to occupy my thoughts but bad memories and I'd rather have discomfort than the unpleasant sensation of my ribs cracking beneath my skin, piercing my heart.

Daryl Dixon. The man who saved my life. Brother to the man that tried to end it. The hunter that's kept me fed. The bastard that's done nothing but push me away and give me hell. The friend I never almost had.

It's been a month and I still don't have him figured out; it's been a month and I'm done trying. I told him I wouldn't bother him anymore and I meant it. He doesn't want to be friends. Great. Cuz I don't think I want any more. He doesn't want to be partners. Ok. I'm one hand down and was shit at skinning anyway. I may be stubborn and can't take a hint but him screaming at me I'm not worth any sort of trouble and blaming me for leaving Merle behind when I had every fucking right to…that's not a hint. That's a blatant _fuck you and fuck off. _Fine. So I'm done. So I was stupid to even try. I can understand that.

What I can't understand is this: the ride to the funerals, the stitching my wounds, the bandages and food and display of an ability to feel human emotion, human compassion. I just don't understand. Daryl acts like he hates me one minute and then the next he doesn't. It's been like that since I got to camp and I'm tired of the endless circles, the frustrating merry-go-round. I don't have the patience any more; I don't want to—_can't even bother to—_**try **any more.

So I'm not going to try.

I'm going to _do _and not give a damn what Daryl thinks or how he reacts. This isn't about him. It's about me and not thinking because thinking and debating and analyzing has just fucked me over. I'm just going to do and not give a shit about the consequences because what can be worse than my friends dying under my hands, scalding blood and freezing tears? Nothing and certainly not Daryl glaring or becoming pissed off. He can't affect me any more; he can't hurt me.

Because honestly? I've stopped fucking caring.

The few yards spanning between Daryl and I are dark and treacherous and picking my way through them is a painstaking process. I stumble too many times to count and it's unsurprising that Daryl's looking right at me when I round the side of his truck, crossbow poised and at the ready. It's dark, I can barely make out his face even though I'm standing two feet from him, but I'm not worried; I know he sees it's me. I stare down the length of his arrow for an indeterminable amount of time and when he finally drops it, I'm faced with a scowl.

"Ya tryin to end up shot kid?" he snarls, a flash of white teeth in the dark. I shrug and don't answer. I don't think he'd want the truth anyway.

"I think you have better aim than that," I respond. I hold out my hand to him, nodding down at the plate between my fingers. "It's probably cold by now but I'd say it's better than what you're running on."

Daryl stays silent and doesn't reach for my offering. After a minute has gone by I give up and set the food next to him on the open tailgate. Still the hunter doesn't say anything but I'm not exactly expecting gratitude; I don't even want it. Not waiting for Daryl to find his voice again, I turn and go to make my way back to the destroyed lean to. I make it five feet before he calls out.

"What bout you?"

Stopping, I look over my shoulder, try to find Daryl's eyes, fail in the darkness. "What about me?"

The hunter fidgets on his truck, the old metal protesting his weight and movement. I can almost imagine the discomfort in his expression when he says, "What are you gonna eat?"

I shrug again but realize he probably can't see it. I'm still half turned to look behind me and my ribs are screaming at the strain. "Not really hungry. Thought it would be better if someone ate it rather than it going to waste," I tell him.

It's the truth, God's honest. Maybe I forgot to mention that him dying of starvation or getting bit cuz he's too out of it would dampen all of our chances at survival but who's going to tell him that?

"What if I already ate?" Daryl fires back and I recognize the intentional antagonistic quality of his voice. I heard it in Merle's words not a few days ago; I heard it from Daryl's own mouth too many times to remember.

"Than save it. Or throw it out. I'm not here to tell you what to do. I just thought I'd offer."

Really. I'm just too done for this shit.

Daryl processes my words for a still moment and just as I'm about to leave again he speaks up, low and rumbled. "Where ya headed? Chinaman waitin up for ya?" I can't tell if it's an honest question or a subtle dig. I think it must be the former because why would Daryl know that Glenn's upset with me? It's not like he'd pay my life that much attention.

"Nowhere in particular. Somewhere to wait for sunrise." It's not like I'll be getting much sleep. What if more walkers come in the night? What if I _dream_?

"Tch. Yer probably gonna fall on yer ass ya go walkin in the dark," Daryl says and I can just about see his sneer. I purse my lips at his words, thinking I get what he's saying, and turn to fully face him.

"Are you offering me a seat Daryl?" I cut to the chase. The hunter grunts something and I hear him shift again on his truck. Taking that as an affirmative, I shuffle my way through the dark, hands outstretched for balance. The second my fingers brush warm metal, I fumble to the open tailgate. It's a lot easier to see Daryl from this distance but there are still plenty of shadows. What's more, he's not even looking at me, silently tucking into his plate. I pull my katana off slowly, stifling a hiss of pain, and slide it into the bed. I follow it up with some effort, tucking my right hand against my ribs, but I still lose balance half way up. If it weren't for Daryl's hand on my elbow I would have pitched off the end.

Collapsing back into the bed, I collide with Daryl's shoulder for a moment—_warm, sweat slicked flesh—_before righting myself. "Thanks," I mutter. He grumbles something back but I can't funny hear it and he falls silent right after. Though my ribs and ankle throb in diluted pain, I have to admit sitting on the truck is a lot more comfortable than perching on some rotten log. It's darker back here sure, I can barely see a thing which means a walker could basically be ten feet from me and I'd never know but…I'm not particularly worried.

The following minutes are quiet save for the clicking of Daryl's jaw and the wet gulp as he swallows. He finishes the whole plate in record time and I almost call bullshit on his earlier statement of having eaten but can't find the energy. In result I stay silent as the minutes add up to half an hour and even more, just staring at nothing, into nothing, until my eyes are crossed and heavy and breathing becomes an unconscious motion once more. There's a small voice in my head, oh so very small now, asking why I'm here, why when I said, like I've said a million times, that I'm done with Daryl. And it's simple really. I'm here because I have nowhere else to be; I'm here because I want to be. Well maybe _want _is a strong word. I just don't care either way. So Daryl's here. So he isn't. So it's dark and I'm tired and I cannot fall asleep. It's all the same to me.

At some point, my legs fall asleep and I squirm to get my blood flowing. In doing so, I jar the katana beside me which in turns shifts back and knocks against something else. There's a muffled crack and then a metallic thud. I go rigid and turn around, half curious, a quarter guilty, and the rest just exhausted. I don't expect to see the mounds of crap stack up behind me and I wonder as to how I missed it all in the first place.

It's too late and there's not enough light from the fire for me to see what I've displaced but if I squint I can make out vague shapes. Merle's bike is the most obvious, towering over me, Daryl leaning his spine against its knobby tire. I can make out a few other things: the haphazard bulge of a collapsed tent, the metal frame of a cot, the silver gleam of the meat drying rack. All of Daryl's belongings are sitting right here behind me and I can't help but think all I have left fits into a hiking pack. Then I get to thinking about the morning and the group leaving, abandoning camp, and Daryl sitting off all the way over here, by himself, segregated, isolated, with his brother's motorcycle denting grooves into his back.

"You're leaving."

It's not a question.

Daryl goes rigid beside me and casts half a glance out of the corner of his eye in my direction. I can't see the color of them and the orbs yawn black and fathomless. "We're all leavin kid," he deflects. "Ya heard Walsh and Officer fuckin Friendly."

I shake my head and now his evasion has confirmed my suspicion. "We are…but you're not coming with us." I know it, no matter how he would try to deny. There is no other option. His brother's gone; this group tolerates him at best and hates his guts at worst. I know I wouldn't stick around. And Daryl's a lot smarter than I am. "You're leaving on your own. Aren't you?"

The question slips out unbidden but it's rhetorical anyway. Daryl doesn't respond and the overwhelming absence of words tells the whole story.

I'm not surprised. I'm not. I'm only surprised that the hunter's stuck around this long.

Turning away from Daryl and his life bundled up nice and tight behind me, I stare out into the forest. My skin is slick with sweat and streaked with grime and gore, winding, gruesome trails snaking around my arms. The humid, Georgia air makes my unruly hair stick to the back of my neck and every cell of me aches to collapse. I feel 1000 years old; I feel ancient in my own bones. So much has happened and the time's been so little. Four months ago I was on my way to graduating high school. Two months ago and my home was reduced to ashes. A month ago I was shot in the head and made my first human contact since the world ended, I made my first friends. Three days ago I was whole and healthy and Daryl still had a brother. Yesterday Amy was still alive and Glenn could still look me in the eye and I actually gave a crap about going through the motions. That's all gone now and I clench my fingers wondering if there was anyway to have stopped it, anyway to keep it from slipping through my fingers.

"So I guess you leave in the morning," I say at length. In my peripherals I see Daryl give a curt nod. The morning, mere hours away. Daryl will go his way and I'll…I don't know where I'm going or what I'll do. Probably just keep going until something stops me, whether it be teeth or starvation or a bullet I'll put through my own skull.

"_You must endure, you must continue on. Remember this Audrey Lara Bennett. Remember this and never forget it," _Sensei's voice echoes in my head as if in reprimand.

I haven't forgot Sensei. I just don't think I can try forever. I don't think I want to.

It might just be the lack of sleep or the lack of food, the shock or whatever but I can almost feel Sensei's disappointment as if he is standing right in front of me with that all too familiar frown. I drop my head and stare at the splint on my wrist, the bruises on my knuckles, the blood under my fingernails.

"_Don't look at me like that," _I tell the ghost of Takeo Nakamura. "_You don't know what this world is like. You didn't live long enough to see it."_

A nasty part of my brain whispers **whose fault is that**, followed by flashes of fire and the destruction of Dalton playing through my mind while someone is screaming, _"Audrey you have to go. Go! It's too late. I'll do my best to find them but you have to go!"_

Maybe before I would have tried to deny it but now I accept it's my fault and my entire fault only. Seems I can't save anyone.

Some more time passes and I suddenly realize it's gone dead silent. Feeling the hair on my arms stand on end, I crane my head back to look towards the RV and see that the fire is barely embers now. Everyone's gone to bed, ready for the big day tomorrow. I see Shane's shadow move atop the RV but besides that, the shadows are the only movement my eyes can see, the dry wind through the grass and leaves the only sounds left in the night. I wonder what time it is and I wonder when we'll be leaving. I turn to ask Daryl but my mouth has only just parted when I freeze, tongue pressed tight against the split in my lower lip.

Beside me, Daryl is slumped in his seat, lanky and lean, half folded in on himself. His hands are half curled around his crossbow that balances precariously on his thighs and his right leg, inches from my own, twitches every so often. Even in sleep the hunter is ready to go, always prepared. I'm half curious as to if this is a new, apocalypse reflex he's honed or if it's something he's always had. I guess I'll never know. Taking a deep breath, very conscious of Merle's boot prints indented on my ribs, I find myself drinking in the sight of Daryl's sleeping face. It's not exactly relaxed; there's still a pinch between his eyes and a tightness around his mouth but he certainly looks more approachable while he sleeps. The irony of the matter is he's probably his most dangerous, will lash out first and ask questions latter. He's always so hostile or antagonistic at best that it's disconcerting to see him like this, so open and vulnerable, especially with the threat that's looming in the woods. This just speaks to how exhausted the hunter must be, how the past few days have just taken and taken and left him with nothing.

I think I feel something akin to sympathy prick in my chest but I can't be sure. Either way, I slowly lean against the side of Daryl's truck and turn my attention back to the woods, now alert to and focused on any sound or movement that could become dangerous. The way I see it this is the last thing I can do for the hunter, the last good thing I can give him. He saved my life before and has kept me fed since, has protected camp to the best of his abilities. Making sure that he's not torn to shreds as he sleeps, especially when I was going to be awake anyway, is the least I can do. That and moving is not high on my desire list. If I can use his truck to rest, I can keep my eyes open for geeks and gleaming teeth.

The night passes slowly and by the time the sky starts to glow pink with the rising sun the only things that have moved are the moon above my head and the stars in the sky. Behind me, I can hear the others begin to move and stir, the sound of cooking and the garbled noise of _good mornings_. The time has come to leave; where we'll end up I don't know but our time here in the quarry has come to an end. I look about and try to feel sad but I can't muster up the feeling for trees and a lake and familiar dirt when I've already watched my house go up in flames, my school, my city, my family. It really just doesn't compare.

When I hear the first echoes of my name I know that I can't stay here any longer. This time I think I actually feel disappointment but I push it down and reach for my katana instead. I slip off the tailgate and land unsteadily on my feet, trying to be as quiet as possible. Looking up, I realize that I wasn't very successful because, already, Daryl stirs. The sudden urge to be gone before he's fully conscious seizes me and I move without thinking, rounding the side of his truck and already heading back towards the RV.

But before I get too far I can't help but pause and turn one last time to face the hunter, get one last good look. "Goodbye Daryl," I whisper and I find myself wishing I could see his eyes just once more, wishing I could imagine them as Mom's or Irina's or Amy's. But I don't go back and I don't linger. I take a deep breath and nod at the back of Daryl's head even though he can't see it and say the only thing I can think of.

"Thank you."

_For saving my life when it isn't worth saving._

_For putting up with all this shit and keeping us all fed. _

_For being a friend, however brief the time and however shallow the definition. _

_Thank you. And I hope you find your brother._

Having nothing else, I follow the sound of my name and leave Daryl in the bed of his truck, my last image of him his face slack with sleep and his eyelids just starting to flutter open.

* * *

><p>Daryl wakes up with the words <em>thank you <em>circling an empty drain in his head and he doesn't know why. Hell, he doesn't even remember fallin asleep but suddenly it's daylight and he's alone on the tailgate of his truck, a crick in his neck and a sore spot on his spine from Merle's knobby bike tires. He snaps to attention real quick when he realizes where he is and automatically looks for threats in his immediate vicinity; he finds none and his grip slowly loosens on the handle of the crossbow.

"Shit," he grumbles under his breath, scrubbin a hand across his face and through his hair. He had passed out, literally fainted like a goddamn pussy. Jesus. A geek could have walked up and taken a fuckin chunk out of him before he knew it. A dumb ass mistake and Daryl couldn't even remember makin it. The last thing he remembers was the kid figurin out he was leavin and…and where the hell is she anyway? Liftin his head, he looks around him but he's well and truly alone. He purses his lips at the thought and feels vaguely pissed that the kid had just left he sleepin out in the open. However, when he shifts to jump down to the dirt, he realizes the spot beside him is still warm. The rest of the metal, save the place he had just been sittin and the spot inches away, is cold and dewy in the morning air. That means that kid had just been there; recently enough that her body heat still lingers. That means she hadn't left him during the night but only when the sun had come up. The discovery has him lookin around again but he sees nothin but trees and air. Audrey's gone.

And thinking about it…he should be too.

It's mornin. He had decided he'd leave in the mornin and it's here. Once he's checked that everything's tied down, checked his water and meager food supplies, once he's checked his weapons and double checked he's left nothin behind…nothin's keepin him. Except he's sittin in the driver's seat, half an hour after he woke up, with his hand on the ignition and the other on the wheel and he can't seem to turn the goddamn key. He gives up after the tenth failed attempt and just stares out his windshield, watchin as the rest of the assholes get ready for their own journey, packin their crap into their cars and roundin up their kids.

That mother fuckin kid. Audrey fuckin Bennet. There's no denyin it's her that's makin him pause; nothing else these people have could keep him. But that kid. Everythin bout her alternately pisses Daryl off or confuses the fuck outta him and it's been like that since day one. Now he could finally be rid of her and he can't even move. He tries to figure out why that is and he comes up with reasons that don't make sense: her journal with all those stupid words in it, her kickin Walsh's ass, her bringing him food, her skinnin a rabbit beside him and fuckin up time and time again. It doesn't make sense…and yet if goddamn does.

He never wanted it, tried his hardest to fight it, called it a hundred different things but the fact of the matter is…the kid was, is, his _friend. _Cuz why else would she do any of the shit she's done, all that shit he can't ignore? And why else would **he **have driven her up to those graves or stitched her arm or offered her a seat last night when all he could think about was her wandering off into the dark and being torn asunder or fallin and breakin her neck? He said it was cuz of Merle; he said it was cuz he **owed **her. And while all that shit was true, they were merely excuses. The truth is Audrey was the first one to treat him like a goddamn human being and Daryl couldn't help but be partial to that, like that, even when he kept tellin himself he didn't need it, that he didn't **want **it. It had snuck up on, crawled beneath his skin when he wasn't lookin, but he can't fight it any more.

The kid's his goddamn friend and if he leaves these motherfuckers are gonna get her killed.

The instilled Dixon part of his brain insists he shouldn't care; he's known the kid for a month; she's part of the reason his brother's missin and what bout Merle anyway? Is Daryl just gonna abandon him, his _kin, _for some seventeen year old kid that's smiled some at him and treated him just a **little **bit better than dirt? What bout family? Does that mean nothin to Daryl now?

The hunter wants to snarl that it's always meant somethin to him, even when it meant nothin to his godforsaken father, his goddamn brother. He's always stood by Merle's side! He's the one that got his brother out of county jail when the world went to shit and saved his ass too many times to count when the older Dixon was too fucked up to tell left from right!

He fuckin went **back **for Merle, even when the odds said he was dead or worse! His brother's the one that ditched, high tailed it out of Dodge and didn't think bout Daryl back at camp waitin for him. What was Daryl supposed to do? Wait here in this quarry for the dead to come and devour him? Wait for his brother to never come back? Or was he supposed to go back into the city and look for somethin that isn't there; risk his life in vain? This all sounded very noble and logical last night, alone in the dark with only the shadows for company. But in the bright light of day…stickin round cuz he can actually tolerate a human being doesn't seem so stupid compared to the alternative. Sure, he can take care of himself but other people, while annoying and problematic, serve as _some _kind of buffer between him and the undead, whether it be through watchin his back or bein _at _his back, between him and snappin teeth. Morbid but honest.

And the brutal truth is, nevermind the kid or what he thinks, feels, for her…stayin with these assholes is the best chance he has for survival.

Guilt, no matter how irrational, burns hot in his gut. It makes his head pound and bones feel brittle cuz Merle's his brother and now he's gone and Daryl's all alone and might never see him again. The situation might cripple a lesser man but Daryl has grown up in shitty conditions and has learned to roll with the punches and keep on movin. This is no different and he's got more pressin matters to consider. Like survival. He just needs to survive and he knows, deep down, that Merle, wherever he is, will do the same. They're Dixons. Fightin's in their blood.

Daryl had said nobody could kill Merle but Merle and he believed it. He'd find his brother eventually cuz the sonvabitch was too stubborn to die. It was a Dixon quality after all; same thing ran through his own veins, the same poison that's gonna keep the two of them alive.

Daryl leans back in the driver's seat and reaches for the ashtray, findin one of Merle's half smoked butts. He pushes the truck's lighter in and pulls it out a minute later, layin the cherry red end against the cigarette between his lips. He takes a deep drag, holds it, and lets it out slowly, watchin the smoke curl off his tongue and spiral into the air.

"Here's to seein ya later Merle," he mutters and he feels like he really just might.

* * *

><p>By nine o'clock everyone's packed and ready to go, the vehicles lined up with their drivers crowded around them. I stand off to the side, trying to be as invisible as possible but it's a futile attempt. As the adults hammer out the finer details of our trip Carl ambles up to me and blinks those big blue eyes of his, red rimmed and puffy. He's been crying recently and I think he's probably been crying for Amy. He looks at me with this expression that begs for me to <em>fix it <em>and even if I knew what to fix—_the world, Amy's death, what?—_I'd have nothing to offer. I show Carl my empty hands to tell him this but he misinterprets my gesture because all of the sudden he's latched onto my waist with his face buried in my ribs. I almost cry out as he nuzzles into the bruises and most likely broken bones in my side but stop myself at the last second. Instead, I tentatively wrap my good arm around him and pat along his spine. The gesture is awkward and almost robotic but it's the best I can give at the moment. Because there's this voice in my head screaming _it's only going to get worse tell him tell him _and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep the words from spilling out. Unaware of my inner turmoil, Carl silently cries into my side until his mother comes to extract him and even then he stands close as he can, brushing my hand every so often.

The mannerisms are so child like, so young. And it takes me a minute to remember Carl is only twelve after all. He should be playing little league or something similarly mundane and normal. He shouldn't be standing here listening to Shane address the group like a squadron of soldiers; he shouldn't be standing on the dirt that still bares the stain of blood and death. He shouldn't…but he is and that's life.

I promised to protect his life to the best of my abilities. I can do nothing for his innocence.

For the next few minutes I half-heartedly listen as Shane speaks of CB radio frequencies and caravans, horns and signals. It's all useless information to me; I won't be driving. In fact, I don't even know what vehicle I'm riding in. I haven't spoken to anyone this morning aside from a few passing _good mornings._ No one's told me anything and I suppose I'll just hop into whatever vehicle has room. It will most likely be the RV, with dying Jim and Dale, Jacqui and Glenn, who I overheard conversing about seats and shifts in the back with our resident patient.

It will be like a hospital on wheels; or rather a hospice. I won't say anything, not to anyone, but I know Jim's not going to make it. There's a small chance I'm wrong but as I said before: hope for the best, prepare for the absolute worst. Sometimes, the first part is not even necessary.

Something moves in my peripherals and, bored, I look up to find it. At first I think it's one of Morales' children who have been fidgeting for some time now or maybe Sophia who's been pressed so tight into her mother's side all morning, I wonder if she's bruised. But it's none of them, nor is it anyone else I would have guessed.

It's Daryl.

He standing five feet away from Morales, set back a little bit so he's not part of the circle of people but close enough to hear what's happening. He's dressed differently than I last saw him, maybe the same jeans but he's in a faded orange sleeveless number that looks relatively clean. He also looks less haggard and strung out, the bruises under his eyes nearly gone, his skin not so pale. All of this is vaguely surprising but not so much as his actual presence.

A few hours have passed since I left him stirring on his tailgate; he should be long gone by now. In fact, I thought he was. I hadn't seen him the entire time I wandered around camp, picking up random things, helping to get the caravan ready. I had just assumed he slipped away silently in true Daryl Dixon fashion.

But he hadn't. Because he's standing ten yards away from me, rubbing at his eyes and shifting from foot to foot. I think maybe I'm hallucinating, lack of food and lack of sleep coming back to bite me in the ass, but all of he sudden Daryl looks up, as if he could sense me staring. Our eyes clash immediately, my green on his blue, and the two of us freeze, speaking in glances. My question, and slight confusion, must show in my expression—_why haven't you left?—_because Daryl shrugs at length—_I don't know—_and when I jerk my head slightly at the rest of the group—_are you coming with?—_he just nods sharply.

_Yes. _

I blink and tilt my head at him. Huh. Well…well that's something. What I'm not exactly sure but…it's something.

I contemplate heading over to him, again I'm not sure as to why, but before I can even move, Morales' deep voice penetrates my thoughts.

"We're uh…we're not going."

The words don't make sense for a minute but when my eyes flicker to the older man and his family, see the sadness in each of their faces, the tears in Miranda's…I very quickly understand.

Daryl might not have left but that doesn't mean everyone's staying. A piece of the Earth crumbles from below me but what no one knows is I'm already floating away, weightless.

"We have family in Birmingham," Miranda explains. She clings to her husband's arm for strength and repeatedly reaches out to touch her children's hair or arm or face. "We want to be with out people."

The rest of the group stares at the family with incredibility; Shane's face is the worst.

"You go out on your own, you won't have anyone to watch your back," he says and I can't tell if it's a warning or a death sentence he's uttering. Probably both.

Morales, kind hearted and soft spoken, usually never without a smile, nods grimly. "I understand…but I got to do what's best for my family."

Rick, who barely knows this man, looks stricken. The cop with the bleeding heart. He should stitch that up before he dies of exsanguination. "You sure?" he asks and Morales nods. It's like a judge banding a gavel; a door slamming shut.

"We talked about it. We're sure."

And just like that…it's done. Shane and Rick concede. They hand Morales a gun and a box full of bullets, to which I don't miss Daryl's half aborted scoff in the background. Everyone starts bombarding the family for hugs and handshakes, goodbyes and good lucks.

I feel like I'm at a funeral again.

I stand near the back and don't move from my spot, watching from a distance as Carl stands at his mother's side before Miranda and her children and tries not to cry.

Silently, I look at Luis and Eliza in turn, taking in their young faces, wet with tears and streaked with dirt. They look so young; they're even younger than Carl and that makes me feel so ancient. Eliza wails as her brother just quietly sniffles and I watch as Sophia hugs the other girl tight, losing yet another friend. As they let go, Eliza presses a worn and raggedy doll into Sophia's hands. The blonde girl blinks at her with big eyes but clutches the doll to her chest nonetheless.

The exchange would be heart breaking.

If I had anything left to break.

Within minutes, all that can be said has been said and Morales makes his way over to me, his last stop. I don't even try to run. "Well mijita," he says with a smile so sad I can only frown. "Guess we never did get to those Spanish lessons huh?"

It takes me a moment to remember what he was referring to, a snatch of prose spoken by his daughter, overlain with hiccups, but when I do, it only deepens my frown. A part of my wants to reply with something harsh, but truthful, about people dying and who needs education like that anyways, here at the end of the world? But that's not what I say because somewhere in my mine I know that's not appropriate. Instead, I respond with, "I would have been a horrible student anyway so I guess you lucked out." No less truthful but less biting I suppose.

Morales laughs but it's quiet and halfhearted. "I don't know niña," he says. "You seem awfully smart."

I smile in reply, bitter and broken, and force myself not to say, "_No I'm stupid as hell because if I was any kind of smart I'd take that gun from your waistband and put a bullet through my skull."_

The older man must take my silence as an ability to speak through my emotions because he suddenly pulls me into a hug. It's hot and uncomfortable in his arms, smells of sweat and dirt and blood, and I stand there stiffly until he releases me. He smiles down at me, still gently holding my upper arms, and a tear falls against my cheek. I wipe it away with a flick of my wrist and hope he doesn't notice my own eyes are bone dry.

"Take care of yourself Audrey. Maybe we'll see each other again one day."

I nod despite myself and when Morales hugs me one last time, I manage to awkwardly pat his back. When he turns and walks back to his family, piles into their car, I wave at Luis and Eliza, who wave back in turn.

"No," I whisper as his ignition kicks and rumbles to life. "We won't."

Something clicks in my chest and I can't tell if the sensation is painful or not.

"Who won't what?" a voice asks behind me and I turn to find Glenn standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders hunched. I drop my hand and shrug, turn my back on Morales and his family and don't look back.

"Nothing. Never mind. Are we ready to go?"

Glenn purses his lips, displeased with my reply, but just nods his head. "Yeah. Do you know who you're riding with?"

_No. Not at all. And I don't necessarily want to ride with you because a part of me just automatically wants to look for Amy and she's dead and I accepted that but I don't know if you can and I think you might hate me for it and that's something I don't want to deal with right now. _

All of this and more runs through my head in the blink of an eye and it all gets garbled up in my throat because I know I **shouldn't **say any of that but I can't think of anything else to say. I realize there's no way to avoid it, might as well suck it up, and go to tell Glenn that I don't have a ride and could I please ride with him.

"Kid!"

My head snaps up as if my name had been shouted. I guess, in a way, it was. Daryl is standing next to his truck, half in the driver's seat, with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. "I'm not waitin for yer ass all day," he calls out. Like I know what he's talking about. Like he had offered this before. Like this was fucking planned. The son of a bitch is giving me an out, shocking and from left field, but I'll take it anyway. It's a gift horse and I'm not looking for teeth. Not allowing myself to think about my choice, I wave at Daryl to show I've heard him and turn back to Glenn.

Glenn looks shocked to hell, eyes wide and mouth agape. He sputters something, half a question, but I cut him off. "I have a ride but thanks for asking." The response sounds awkward to my own ears but I don't let it stop me. I just stoop to grab my hiking pack, leaning against my leg, and shoulder it with a grunt. The weight makes my ankle scream, my ribs too, but I press through it and press forward, nodding quickly at Glenn before shuffling over to Daryl's truck.

The door sticks and it takes me a few tries to wrench it open. Flakes of faded paint flutter to the ground as I toss my bag onto the floor of the truck and painstakingly follow it up. My katana and tanto find their places on the seat beside me and, as soon as I'm situated, I shut the door with a definitive click. Eyes still flaring with flashes of sharp pain, I cast a glance at Daryl and bite my lip, hoping the pain with center me.

"Thanks," I tell him. "For the ride I mean."

I don't know what else I'd be thanking him for. Staying? I just felt the need to clarify. Daryl actually looks back at me, straight in the goddamn eye, and I remember my earlier wish to see his eyes one last time. The blue of them is refreshing—_Mom, Irina, Amy—_and I find myself relaxing despite everything.

The hunter doesn't say anything at first but as the cars start up around us, he gives me a tight-lipped nod. "Ain't nothin," he mutters and it might be the softest thing he's ever said. "I'd thought it'd be better than trapped in some movin death trap with a walker to be." He flicks his head towards the Winnebago where Glenn is just closing the door behind him.

I hum in acknowledgement and force myself not to think of Jim or him dying and what we are all gonna do then. "You wouldn't be wrong but still…thank you."

I think I see a flush of red on Daryl's cheeks but it might be the heat.

"Yeah well…make sure to stay on your goddamn side. And if ya talk to much I'm leavin yer ass on the side of the road."

"Duly noted."

Daryl doesn't say anything more as he starts the truck and puts it into drive. The two of us are last in the caravan and as we pull out onto the road, turning left, I crane my head to the right just in time to see Morales' little Suzuki turn a dip in the road. I think I see a hand pressed into the rear window, a small face gazing back at me, but then Daryl completes the turn left and we head in the opposite direction. Morales and his family are gone and the realization leaves me strangely cold. It doesn't hurt just makes me feel as if I've been dipped in ice. I look down at my fingers, expecting frostbite, but they're still pale, dried blood beneath my fingernails. I curl my hands into fists and look away.

Staring out the window at the passing greenery, Daryl Dixon a silent presence at my side, I think about the face I just saw, Eliza I believe, saying her last farewell. And I think about my friend Annie Marie, her dainty hand pressed against the back window of her father's pickup truck and me waving until she was long gone and my arm was sore and tired.

I think about those two girls and I think about how I'll never see either of them again. It's a sobering thought and I press my forehead against the window in order to feel anything besides the tightness of my skin.

Closing my eyes, I pray for oblivion but sleep is not, and never was, a mercy.

* * *

><p><strong>(1) Peter Pan reference. The magical land that Peter Pan lives in is named Neverland and is found on the second star to the right and straight on till morning<strong>

**So. This was really weird for me cuz Audrey's mindset is a kind of fucked up place. I hope I portrayed that well enough. I'd just like to state that her detachment is letting her get closer to Daryl, as weird as that sounds, because she has just stopped caring. If I didn't make that clear enough.**

**ANYWAY! I hope you liked it (this was a shit ton of Daryl/Audrey interaction) and please leave your thoughts below :) I know it's been a while but I can't wait to hear from you guys! ^^**

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**

**PS: DID YOU GUYS SEE THAT FUCKING SEASON PREMIERE?! HOLY SHIT! My friend and I literally just freaked out for an hour in my dorm room. No lie. What did you guys think of it? :O**


	24. Let's Not Talk About It, Let's Just Not

**So I could bore you with my long winded apology. How college has been kicking my ass and so on and so on but you're not here for that! You are here for TWD. You are here for Daryl and Audrey. So read on! Enjoy! And tell me what you think, even though I don't deserve readers as faithful and awesome as you all!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC and her specific plot line. No profits were made from this.**

**Warnings: Language and violent sequences.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 24: Let's Not Talk About It, Let's Just Not Talk <strong>

* * *

><p>They drive for hours.<p>

Out from the hills, away from the quarry, they abandon greenery for sparse houses and crackin asphalt roads. It's hot as any day dead in the middle of a Georgia summer and, not for the first time, Daryl wishes he could spare the fuel for a little A/C.

Air whistles humidly through the open windows and sweat dampens the collar of Daryl's shirt, trails sluggishly across his cheeks and down his neck. The whole situation's miserable, a suffocating funeral procession, but you wouldn't know it. Not if ya were lookin at the kid. She's curled up passively against the door, head propped on the corner of the window frame, starin blankly at the passin scenery. She hasn't moved since they left the quarry, hasn't said a word or made a single noise. If it weren't for the slight movement of her chest and an occasional blink, Daryl wouldn't even know she was still alive.

Silence, which Daryl has always found a companion, is now nothin short of grating. He almost wishes he hadn't snapped at Audrey when she slid into the passenger seat, reflexive words cuz she shouldn't be _thankin_ him when he was still drownin in debt. But as he continues to drive, on and on and on with nothin but the sound of wind and tires eatin up the gravel beneath him, he realizes that even if he hadn't said a word…the kid wouldn't have been any different. Daryl ain't stupid and he can read people better than anyone might realize. The kid's silence has nothin to do with his sharp ultimatum. It's somethin else and that list goes on for miles.

Some time later, Daryl flicks a gaze to his right, just to make sure the kid's still breathin. She is, but what should be a rhythmic sound of _in, out, in, out, _is labored and hitched. Each inhale is a high-pitched wheeze and each exhale is a pantin huff, endin in a shudder. Daryl tries to crane his neck, catch a glimpse of the kid's face but she has it resolutely turned to the window, only the curve of her cheek and arch of her neck visible to him. He thinks there's a wet sheen to the skin along the corner of her eye, gleamin along the black and blue skin, but he turns back to the road before he can be sure. He offered the kid a ride; if she was gonna cry, that's her business.

However, as the minutes continue to stretch the sound only seems to get worse. It's loud, crashin upon Daryl's ears and since he can't escape it—no fuel to be spared for the radio, not that it would play anythin either way—he listens. And the longer he listens…the more the sound _doesn't _sound like quiet sobs. Audrey has started squirmin too, half aborted movements, twitches of her legs and ticks in her shoulders. It's gets so bad that Daryl can no longer keep his mouth shut.

"If ya hurl kid yer cleanin it up." After so much silence, his voice sounds like a gunshot.

The squirmin abruptly stops and so does the noise as the kid turns to look at him. Daryl spares her half a glance, a second to take in her dry cheeks and dull eyes, before he returns his attention to drivin.

"I'm not going to puke," she says. Her voice is steady but the labored breaths have started up again. He's hard pressed to believe her.

"Tch," Daryl snorts. "Ya sound like a dog who drank too much water and is bout to bring it back up."

There's no response to his analogy and when he clicks his eyes over again, the kid's head is tilted to the side, gaze trained on the side of his face. "I never had a dog."

Like that makes any sense at all.

Daryl grits his teeth to keep from snappin, tells himself the kid's off her rocker. "That's not the point." He exhales sharply and brings his hand to his mouth, chews on the mutilated cuticle of his thumb and spits the bloody skin out the window. He makes an impulsive decision and it comes out of his mouth. "Look…do I gotta pull over or what? We ain't got time to clean it out if ya lose it in here."

"I told you. I'm not going to vomit. I'm not nauseous."

"Then what's with the breathin? Ya got asthma or some shit?" Daryl used to have that, as a kid. Runnin through the fields and woods kicked it out of him pretty quick though. He hasn't had problems since before he hit fuckin puberty. But he still remembers what the sensation is like: chest too tight, ribs constrictin, throat too small. If Audrey's havin an attack…well it's not like he has a goddamn inhaler.

The kid shrugs, looks at him for a moment, green eyes contemplative behind their dull color, then looks back out the window. Her hair whips around her face chaotically and she tucks a strand behind her ear. "Something like that," she mutters and Daryl can't help his scowl.

"What the hell does that mean?" He ain't got time for riddles. If she's bout to pass out then he's gonna flag down that piece a shit Winnebago cuz he ain't bout to be blamed—

"It means breathing's a little difficult with a few busted ribs."

Daryl almost bites through his tongue. Almost but not quite and he settles for swervin the truck a little bit to the left. The kid's sword bumps into his thigh, clatters to the floor. It is suddenly so equally loud and silent that Daryl's ears ring and ache with the pressure.

"_It means breathing's a little difficult with a few busted ribs."_

"…_a few busted ribs."_

She doesn't say it, there's no malice or spite in her voice, but Daryl hears the words as clearly as if she had screamed them. **I can't breathe because your brother tried to kill me. **

He's an idiot, a goddamn idiot. Of course the kid was wheezin; of course she couldn't breathe. Her ribs bore the imprint of Merle's steel-toed boots. They were probably broken, if not then they were most definitely fractured. Fractured ribs, fractured wrist. Sprained ankle, broken nose. Bruised trachea, black eye, split lip and god knows what else. All due to Merle, his brother. Daryl is so deep in debt he can't even see the goddamn surface.

Havin nothin to say, Daryl white knuckles the steering wheel and focuses on the bumper of Walsh's Jeep, all to aware of the shame burnin through his veins.

* * *

><p>Maybe I shouldn't have said it like that. Maybe I should have let him believe I was nauseous, let him pull over, and dry heaved for a bit to appease him. Except that would have wasted time and fuel that we don't have to waste, not to mention throwing up would only make the pain worse. I would have lost either way. Damned if I do and damned if I don't. My life's a perpetual catch-22. I accepted that a long time ago.<p>

Daryl is stonily silent beside me. His knuckles blanch bone white against the steering wheel, split along the ridges. Some of the cuts are shallow, like paper cuts, and others are deeper, dried blood around their edges. The middle knuckle of his right hand is purple too, heavily bruised and slightly swollen. It looks to be broken. My ribs and wrist and nose twinge in acknowledgement, almost empathy. A tiny part of me wants to ask him if he's ok, ask if needs help. But even that tiny part doesn't have the energy to entertain the idea for long and it soon slides away. I go back to looking out the window, counting passing trees. I try to regulate my breathing, make it normal, but it's harder to ignore the pain now. My gut feels hot and burning, on fire, and I think of broken bones, nicked arteries and internal bleeding. I think about all my blood flooding out of my veins and filling up my chest so I can't breathe, so I drown. That wouldn't be such a bad way to go. Better than being bit; better than the fever. And doesn't the body release endorphins as it drowns so that it doesn't even hurt?

Or is that starvation?

I can't help the dry laugh that cracks out of my lips. Either way seems I'm set.

Some more time passes; I don't bother to count or keep track of it. One minute bleeds into the next and we're driving down this endless road, trees on both sides, and the warm wind dragging its fingers through my hair. At one point, Daryl drifts slightly onto the shoulder and dirt is kicked up into my face. I clench my eyes shut against the sting and, suddenly, I'm back on that godforsaken roof. Walker moans reverberate in my ears, the sun is blisteringly hot, and Merle sneers at me as he lunges for my throat. I snap open my eyes, welcome the sting of dirt, and press myself harshly against the doorframe. The painful press of metal against the skin of my upper forearm centers me and I stare unblinkingly forward as my ribs constrict inward and every inch of me abruptly feels so very tired and so very painful.

"Here."

Daryl's voice startles me and I glance over to see him extending a beer can at me, the top sawed off and the edges jagged. I frown at the offering, empty and dirty looking. I take it anyway.

"What's this?"

The metal is thin but warm in my hand. I peek into it again, thinking I missed something, some last dregs of beer, another pill, but the dull aluminum just glints back at me. I look up at Daryl in search of answers.

"Spit in it," Daryl grunts at me and I blink back in return. Well that wasn't an answer I was expecting.

Dropping my hands to my lap I ask, "Why?" For a brief second I can't help but think of those old Western movies where cowboys used to have spitting contests to build rapport. I wrinkle my nose and hope this isn't Daryl trying to make friends.

I'm too tired for friends. I'm too goddamn weary.

The hunter cuts a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. His gaze seems to jump sporadically over me, never landing for more than an instant, before he's looking back out over the road. "To see if there's blood," is his explanation. "If…if yer bleeding…inside…"

He chews on his words for a moment, switches to the skin of his left thumb. Still he keeps his eyes on the road. "There'll be blood," he finishes.

It takes a moment for me to understand what he's saying. Blood in the saliva. Blood on the inside, in your guts. Internally shredded. My first reaction is to deny any of it. _I'm fine. Just a few bruises. _But I'm tired of lying and pretending. It hurts. Bad. And maybe I'm internally bleeding. Maybe I'm not. Who am I to say?

Shrugging to myself, I bring the sawed off can to my mouth and gather as much saliva as I can. It isn't much and spitting it out hurts more than it should, muscles pulling too tight in my gut, sending flames licking up my sides. I almost expect to see red when I look down again. But my spit is clear with a little foam as it swirls at the bottom of the beer can. No pink. No red. No blood.

"Nothing," I report to Daryl. Instead of being relieved, he just grows more rigid and stiff. He doesn't say anything after a few beats and I take it upon myself to throw the can out the open window. As I turn, however, the motion is too extreme for the bandages around my ribs and I feel them give with a muffled snap. Instantly, blood begins to flow to my sides, bringing pain along with it. I hiss at the sensation and throw my head back against the seat.

Why can't the numbness in my chest transfer to the rest of my body, ice sliding through my veins, putting out the fires?

_Because that would be too easy _something whispers in my head and God do I know my life can **never **be made easy. It has to be hard. It has to _**hurt. **_Otherwise, it wouldn't be my life.

Eyes still clenched tight, though I can't remember closing them, I lift up the hem of my shirt and grope for the unwound, tail end of the bandage. It eludes me in the darkness; every time I think I've got it, it slithers away again. Eventually, I reach skin, warm and sensitive and I realize I've just unwound the whole bandage, the slightly coarse cloth pooled against my hips and at the small of my back. Opening my eyes, I stare blindly at the ceiling of Daryl's truck and resign myself to pain.

It's not like I don't deserve it. I deserve so much more. What are a few busted ribs when Jim's dying in the RV in front of me? What's a fractured wrist when Amy's body decays in a forgotten quarry in the hills of Georgia?

What's a sprained ankle when all my friends and family are dead?

A rusty patch of metal on the ceiling catches my attention and I can't help but think how it looks like dried blood. I reach up and let my fingers trail across it, fine, red flakes drifting down and landing against my cheeks. The thought comes to me then of why am I still here? Why am I allowed to be surrounded by so much _blood and pain _and always come out the other side?

I've been asking myself this question in one form or another since I was five years old.

No answer has ever been forth coming.

* * *

><p>The sight of the kid's ribs makes Daryl want to punch the steering wheel. It makes him want to slam on the brakes and get out of the truck and just fucking <em>shoot <em>something. It makes him feel so fucking **angry. **It makes him feel so goddamn _shameful._

Goddamn it Merle, he snarls to himself. Goddamn it!

He only catches a small glimpse, a few seconds as the kid reaches up to play with some rust on the ceiling, but it's enough. Enough to see the battered skin underneath the ratty t-shirt. Enough to see the spanning swirls of colors: black on blue on purple on red. Enough to see the actual print of Merle's steel-toed boots, dug deep and staining.

His brother literally kicked in her ribs. He knew Chinaman hadn't be lying, the emotion too _real _on his face when he had told Daryl what happened, but _seeing _the actual damage, all of it—face and wrist and ankle and now ribs—it makes Daryl feel sick and feverish.

Because Merle's his brother and he's exactly like their Pa was and that must mean Daryl ain't no different than either of them. He's got the same blood. He's got the same _poison. _He always told himself that he wasn't deservin of the looks people gave him; that he knew who he was and the rest of those people could fuck off. But maybe…maybe they were right all along. Cuz Daryl might not have broken Audrey's skin but he might as well have. In a way, he let it happen; in a way, he pushed the kid away from himself and right at Merle. How was that any different? How was that any better?

The resounding _It's not _in his head pulses in time with a headache and forces his next words out of his collapsin throat.

"I can honk if ya want."

It's only when the kid turns to look at him, diluted confusion in her wide green eyes, that he realizes his blurted statement made no sense. A hot flush crawls up his neck and blooms across his cheeks, three parts shame, one part embarrassment, and he tries to explain.

"If ya wanna…the chink's probably missin ya," he grinds out cuz he can't say it; can't make the words _if ya wanna leave cuz my brother tried to kill ya and I ain't no better _roll off his tongue. "Ya can switch."

He doesn't know what else to say or how to put it so he lapses back into uncomfortable silence, starin out the windshield. For a moment, the kid says nothin. Then, she makes this funny little noise, a huff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. He cuts a quick glance at her and finds her smilin. It's small, a bare upturn of her lips, but her eyes ain't so cold anymore. They've got some life in them, if only just a spark.

"Tired of me already?"

"What? No." Daryl realizes what he's just said and tries to backtrack, tongue gettin tangled on the journey. "I mean…" He casts his mind about, lookin for the words. He comes up wantin and subsides in his seat with a growl, cheeks burnin hot now. "The piece of shit the old man drives has more room. Ya'd probably…it'd be better in there."

He sounds like an idiot and he knows it. He wishes he never said anythin at all. Better yet, he wishes he never opened his goddamn mouth in the first place and offered her the ride.

That little huff repeats itself but Daryl keeps his eyes firmly on the road, not wantin to see Audrey laugh at his expense. "And yet here I think the Winnebago would be that much more constricting," she muses. Daryl wonders what she means, it's an RV with only bout four people in it, there'd be plenty of room, but then she keeps goin. "Thanks for the offer but…I'm fine where I am."

Her voice is soft and quiet and a small glance finds her lookin out the window, face strangely fragile lookin. All of the sudden, she looks at him, catches his gaze, and he can't look away for the life of him. "Unless you'd like me gone?" she asks and Daryl had never given that any thought, only thinkin she must be squirmin to be so close to _him_. "Don't want to be any trouble."

Daryl winces, thinkin it's a jab, his own words of _ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble _cyclin back on him. He waits for the scowl or the sharp, glass eyes. He waits for the betrayal to leak into the kid's voice. But none of that happens. Audrey just stares at him plainly, an honest to god question in her eyes. She's really just askin if he'd prefer her in the RV, out of his truck. Perhaps out of his life.

Tch. Yeah well he'd tried that. And no matter how hard he wished he did…the truth was he didn't want her gone. Selfishly, some small, distant part of him that was increasingly becoming louder, wanted the kid around. For her smiles. For her laughs. For just…_**her, **_the first friend he's ever really had and **goddamn. **Isn't that pathetic? He sounds like a twelve-year-old girl.

And cuz he's a twelve year old girl he just grunts and growls, shifts in his seat and mutters, "Don't have the time to stop," even when he'd just said, not two minutes earlier, that they did. It was a lame excuse but nothin better came to mind and when the kid hummed, soundin pleased, he tried not to acknowledge the warmth slowin unfurlin in his chest.

Tried and, ultimately, failed.

* * *

><p>Daryl's acting…different. Strangely. I can't place it, my brain's too fuzzy, my chest too cold, but he's different. Other. I think maybe I should figure out why. Then I think I can't find the energy and decide to just let it be. Isn't my business. Isn't my place to worry. I'm supposed to stay on my "goddamn side" and not talk too much because my ass will be left on the side of the road otherwise. Daryl said that. I remember. And I don't think I want to be left on the roadside. I definitely don't want to ride in the Winnebago. Too many people and hands reaching out. <em>Are you ok? Do you need anything?<em>

Or worse yet. Hands kept to themselves but eyes all over me. _I can't believe she said that about Amy. How callous. How cruel. Disgusting. Appalling. Who is she? I don't even want to know. _

All those things, pressing upon my skin, threatening to split me open. I couldn't take it, all that pressure, all that silence, making my ears pop. Not to mention Jim's still dying in there. Another one lost. Another name soon to be forgotten. In fact, now that I think about it, I don't even know the man's last name.

I didn't even know **Amy's. **

See? It's already begun. Something flutters at the edge of my mind, a scrap of words, _"There are many names in history but none of them are ours." _(1) How true. So unimportant are we. There will be no one to remember us, to tell our stories. If the world ever gets back on its feet, we'll just be more of the forgotten, casualties and relics of a long lost civilization. Amy and Jim and Abby, Mom, Irina, Sensei. Mathias. Annie Marie. Kaleigh.

Audrey.

I count myself amongst the departed. I'm pretty much dead already. These expanding lungs mean nothing. This beating heart is of little consequence. It's all inevitable. I'm already on a countdown. Just don't know how many seconds I got left. All part of the grand surprise I guess.

A serrated smile cuts across my lips as I imagine the Grim Reaper in a party hat. _Surprise. I've been waiting for you for a __**very **__long time. _

Yeah I know. I know.

The humid Georgia air steals into Daryl's truck, scraping past my face. My hair dances chaotically and snaps into my cheeks, stinging points of impact layered on top of cuts and bruises. I try to tuck the strands behind my ears. They fall out the second my fingers slip away. Turning my face away does little more.

"Just roll up the window kid," Daryl mutters. I look down at the rusted out lever, a crank instead of a modern day button. Most likely it will stick just like the door did. My right wrist throbs at the thought of closing the window even a little; that would probably make me throw up like Daryl had first mentioned. So I think _left hand_ but that doesn't work any better. I can't turn my torso like that; my ribs won't allow it. Yet another thing I can't do. I frown out the open window, shut my eyes against the stinging wind. I sigh and it sounds like an admission of failure.

Until there's a metallic whine and suddenly, the wind's gone. I open my eyes to find a half closed window, the glass dirty but solid all the same. I don't remember doing that; I _didn't _do that. Confused, I turn to Daryl in search of answers only to find the hunter a lot closer than I anticipated, stretched almost halfway across my lap. His blue eyes—_blue so blue, Amy and Mom and Irina—_clash with mine and he's so close I can see the flecks of hazel, the light frames of blond lashes. He smells of sweat and smoke but not completely so. His ribcage is a warm press against my thigh, fingers just barely trailing across my knee as he withdraws from the window crank.

And then he's gone.

He jerks back as if burned, returns his hands to ten and two on the steering wheel. His jaw ticks and his Adam's apple bobs sharply as he swallows around it. There's color high in his cheeks, ruddy and blotchy, and a bead of sweat trails from his temple to the hinge of his jaw, slips down his neck and into the collar of his sleeveless, orange shirt. He doesn't say a word but the stings on my cheeks begin to fade and he didn't have to do that. I don't know why he did that. I should thank him nonetheless though; Mom raised me better than that—_Audrey you can do better; be better_. _Have some manners, some respect for yourself and others. _

So I do.

"Thank you."

Not very eloquent but Daryl doesn't need that. Definitely doesn't want it. I probably couldn't find the words anyway.

The hunter grunts but doesn't fall silent like I expect. "Ya don't need to be strainin yerself," he grumbles, soft and almost kind. I've only heard him speak like this a handful of times, and always he scrambles to follow up with something biting and harsh, as if to save face.

"I mean," Daryl grunts quickly, right on cue. "I don't need Walsh on my ass again."

I look at Shane's jeep through the windshield, bouncing along the road in front of us. Distantly, I seem him tug off his ball cap, drag a hand through his hair. I can only imagine the expression on his face: worry and determination. "I wouldn't worry about Shane," I say. "He has other, more important worries than my collection of scrapes and bruises." Which is true. Jim's dying. We're all heading nowhere and fast. Sticking around to say "_**I told you about those Dixon. I fucking told you so," **_was probably not so high on the former cop's priority list. I can only see the profile of Daryl's face but even that looks almost guilty at my few short words. I wonder as to why. Something to do with Merle, my mind supplies, but specifics elude me and I don't have the drive to chase them. Besides, kind of a touchy subject right? Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.

_You brother tried to kill me. _

_I inadvertently, most likely, killed him. _

_He kind of deserved it. _

_But so did I. _

These things don't need to be released into the open air. Let them fester. Let them rot. They'll come due eventually but for right now, let's pretend they don't exist huh?

"It's not too bad anyway," I tell Daryl, laying a palm against my side. The small touch smarts but I bite back the flinch. "No internal bleeding right?" I run my fingers along the ridges, dips and curves of bone mostly smooth beneath my questing hands. "And I don't feel any broken bones.

Daryl snorts and his hands clench until the splits on his knuckles start to bleed. "Ya got pretty high standards for _bad_ kid." His words are strained and tight, even with the small huff of sharp laughter tacked on to the end. Nothing about this situation is funny but I find myself nearly smiling regardless. The expression feels bleak and hollow. I wonder how it must look.

"I've had worse than this Daryl. You don't have to worry about me." The hunter's eyes find mine again and I catch a glimpse of the emotions behind them: guilt and curiosity and, if I didn't know better, concern. The sight makes my skin feel paper-thin and the glass smile shatters off my mouth. I drop my gaze to my lap and pick at Amy's blood, dried beneath my fingernails.

When the holes don't relent burning through the side of my skull, I bite my lip and look out the window, something akin to discomfort writhing through my veins. "Stop with the looks," I mutter to Daryl, to Amy's eyes in his skull. _Everyone please. Just stop looking at me like that. _"If I wanted pity and suffocation, I'd be in the RV."

I think of Glenn and his heart on the sleeve expressions. I think of Dale who thinks he means well. I think of how I can't stand to be near them at this moment, emotions bleeding from their pores, hot and molten and trying to melt the glacier in my chest. I didn't want that. I didn't need that. I needed silence and to be left alone because being near people meant attachments and attachments meant pain. I thought being with Daryl would be different because he'd made it so very clear before he wasn't my friend. But, and God the irony, it seems like he's finally come around.

Just a little too late though. I'm done with friends. They're too fragile. Like glass figurines; like flowers and infants and brittle, old bones. They seem to break so easy; they seem to die like breathing.

Daryl is silent after that and he keeps his screaming glances to himself. I pass the time by pressing on the stitches in my arm, worrying the split in my lip that much deeper, until I can taste pennies against my teeth. At first it hurts, as does breathing and moving and _being, _but it soon slides into numbness, icy water filling up my chest. Or maybe it really is blood and Daryl was wrong. I don't care much either way. I've resigned myself to quietly drowning, refusing to resurface, when I first notice the smoke.

The caravan stops. I see Dale step out of the RV and shake his head, Shane kick his jeep in anger, Rick looking up to the sky in search of answers. I find myself laughing before I can catch myself and it tastes like dirty, ashy, snow; broken pieces of the glacier in my chest now lodged in my throat.

_Come in from the cold Audrey. You'll catch your death!_

The memory is blurry and muted but I can still see the vague silhouette of a woman standing in a brightly lit doorway. She's wearing a red coat and it looks like blood. I remember looking down at the snow in my hands, grey from pollution, and watching crimson droplets bloom across it like flowers. How pretty, I'd thought. What a shame to go inside. But Eleanor dragged me in not too long after and I can't help but think that if I'd only caught my death _then, _I wouldn't be chasing it now and it wouldn't be following me, nipping at my heels. An endless, futile circle. A loop I can't break.

I wish it would snow now. Freezing to death doesn't seem so bad. And when Jacqui runs out of the RV, tears on her cheeks and Jim's name on her lips, I think the cold would actually be a mercy for the man burning out of his skin.

* * *

><p>The man wants to be left behind.<p>

No more fightin; no more foolishly denyin the truth. He's done for and he's finally fuckin accepted it.

It's everyone else that seems to be havin a problem.

"It's what he says he wants," Grimes tells the group. They're all huddled around the doorway of the RV. The former cop looks haggard and sickly pale, like he's the one signin the death warrant and not some walker burned to ashes miles behind them. Daryl purses his lips at the way everyone seems to be on the verge of cryin and turns to look out into the forest. Someone's gotta watch their asses.

"And he's lucid?" one of the mother's asks. She has short hair and small blue eyes. Glancin over at her, Daryl can still see the bruises her dead husband had left behind.

"He seems to be." Grimes fumbles with his hat, rubs at his nose and brow, drops his shoulders like the world's pressin down on them. "I would say yes."

Someone makes a distressed noise, a high-pitched whine about to give way to a sob, and Daryl grits his teeth, looks anywhere but at anyone else. Not surprisingly, he finds himself starin at the kid. She's standin off to his right, closer to the end of the RV than the rest of them. She doesn't seem particularly interested in what's happenin either. Eyes in the trees or eyes on the ground, she ain't listenin. Daryl wonders why she even got out of his truck. Perhaps to keep up appearances for the others, for Chinaman, who's on the opposite end of the Winnebago, next to the old man in his fishin hat; who keeps glancin over at Audrey like he wants to say somethin but can't find the words. The chink couldn't be more obvious with his feelins if he dropped to one goddamn knee but the kid ain't even givin him the time of day. Daryl doesn't think she has it in her, not right now. He thinks she's a little bit more than broken, a little bit more than twisted. He remembers her laughin in the cab of his truck as they pulled over; he remembers the dullness of her eyes.

She ain't the same as before; she might not ever be the same again.

And Daryl doesn't know what to do with that information. The kid had her friend fuckin die in her arms. There's nothin he can say. Empty platitudes meant jack shit and the kid was sick of them, had said so just a few minutes ago, unable to meet his eyes. So the only thing he can **do** is stick close and make sure she doesn't wander off or bite her blade. Cuz she's his—Christ on a fuckin crutch he can't get used to that words—_friend. _Merle would kick his teeth is.

"_Yeah well Merle ain't here," _he reminds himself sharply and glancin at the kid, her bruises and dead eyes, Daryl can't help but be the slightest bit grateful for that.

A cleared throat draws Daryl's attention away from where Audrey's drawin patterns in the dirt with the tip of her shoe. It's the old man. By the expression on his face, he's got somethin to say. Daryl tries not to slam his head back into the RV.

"Back in camp," the old man begins. "When I said Daryl might be right, and you shut me down, you misunderstood." The hunter doesn't remember this asshole _ever _agreein with him but, then again, he tries not to listen to the rest of the group if he can help it.

"I would _never _go along with callously **killing **a man." And that's why Daryl never bothers to listen cuz if they ain't whinin bout somethin, they're judgin him. The other man says those words like they physically sicken him, and Daryl doesn't miss the way his dark brown eyes seem to burn into him accusingly before going back to address Grimes. The hunter bites the inside of his cheek, tastes blood, and looks away again. For a split second, he regrets stickin round cuz nothin's changed. These people still hate him at best, think he's nothin but shit. Sure, Daryl had flown off the handle a little back at the quarry but fuckin sue him. He had been runnin on no sleep, no food, he'd just lost his brother and almost goddamn died. But, while his presentation left somethin to be desired, he had been right hadn't he? There was no cure except a blow to the head. Miles down the road and hours away and it was just as true. He'd like to point it out, shove it in their faces, but gets distracted when Audrey suddenly brushes up against him, much closer than she used to be. Daryl turns his head to look at her but she's still busy messin with the ditch dirt they're standin in, tentative movements from her injured foot makin haphazard designs. He squints at what looks to be a wilted flower beside a windin river? Road? Somethin serpentine in shape.

Shiftin to get a better look, he almost misses Walsh saying, "So we just leave him here? We take off? I'm not sure I could live with that."

Grimes nods his agreement, the two cops in tandem with each other, but Daryl is just done with the pair of them. What else were they gonna do? Jim was gonna change any time now and then they were up shit creek without a paddle. They could either deal with it now, before it got bad, or leave him behind. Option two was a fuckin cop out but Daryl would take it over gettin goddamn bit.

And when Grimes' _wife _and Walsh's bitch speaks up, it's finally a sealed deal. They're gonna leave the man behind, on the side of the road like discarded trash.

Chinaman looks green beneath the gills.

The old man looks wearied but resolved, the same with the two cops.

The women are all on the verge of tears.

And the kid…the kid's too busy pickin at the bandage on her wrist and destroyin all her drawins with a casual sweep of her foot. Daryl thinks he sees the letters _A-M - _before he's just left starin at the top of Audrey's shoe, grey and new, speckled with blood. He refuses to think bout whose blood it is and instead shoves himself away from the RV. The sudden movement catches Audrey's attention, finally, and she looks up, blinkin in confusion.

"What happened?" she asks quietly but her tone, flat and unaffected, suggests it's all for show.

Daryl shoulders his crossbow and turns his back to the rest of the group, abruptly aware of how close the kid is, barely a foot away. "Judge and jury's elected to leave him behind," he says. For a second, Audrey looks like she doesn't understand who he's talkin bout but when the Winnebago rattles a bit, muffled voices echoin from inside, she quickly gets it.

"Oh. Jim." She looks up at the window above her head and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Is he still alive?"

"Not for much longer."

The kid hums. "Are they going to…?" she trails off, cuttin a glance at Daryl out of the corner of her eye. He shrugs and moves around her, back a bit towards his truck cuz the women have openly started to cry at his back and he wants nothin to do with that.

"Don't know. Not my goddamn business," he grunts. He turns around when he thinks himself far enough to avoid the waterworks and finds the kid has followed him.

"Are you going back to the truck?" she asks, head tilted to the side, hair fallin to the side just _so, _exposin the light pink scar his bolt left behind the first day they met. He tries not to compare it to the gash on her brow, the broke nose and split lip his brother has left behind but it's hard not to. Same blood. Same poison. Same person. He ain't so very different from Merle.

Before he can answer, the sound of crunchin gravel reaches his ears. He twitches for his crossbow and the kid swings around, hand on the short sword at her hip, when Chinaman rounds the back of the RV. The chink's slanted eyes go wide as he sees the pair of them.

"Whoa!" He throws his hands up, palms out. "Just me!"

Daryl scowls at the younger man. "Yer gonna get yerself shot like that chink," he spits. Cuz Christ. It's not like walkers didn't sneak up on them two days ago and tear through half their group. It's not like they're _still _havin to deal with that aftermath.

The chink keeps his hands up and shifts from foot to foot. "Sorry," he mutters. His eyes go from Daryl to Audrey and stay there, expression growin softer as he steps closer. "I was coming to ask if…if you were gonna say goodbye."

The question's not directed at Daryl and he knows that. He also knows Chinaman would probably get a better answer from him.

Audrey considers the man in front of her, decides he's too close and takes a step back. Once again, she ends up brushin against Daryl and the hunter would move away if one of the cars weren't already at his back. In result, he left with the kid's elbow lightly pressed against his side, left with basically lookin over her head. He forces himself not to fidget and wonders if finally thinkin of Audrey as his friend means he's gotta stand bein close to her now. The only times he's ever been physically close to people was usually right before he decked them in the face.

"It's…they're moving Jim up that hill a bit," Chinaman says when Audrey doesn't give a response. He points off to right, where the shoulder slopes upward into the trees. "We…we thought it best to give him some shade." Eyes dark and sad, he drops his arm and waits for the kid to reply.

For a moment, she doesn't and Daryl waits for the inevitable, random outbursts that showcase how out of it she really is. But when she finally opens her mouth it's only to say, "I don't think I can make it up that hill."

Lucid and not as cold as he was expectin. Daryl thinks the kid's a great actress when she needs to be.

Chinaman doesn't even see it though, doesn't even hear the way her tone is flat and apathetic under a thin veneer of her normal voice. "I'll help you!" he eagerly fumbles out, stumbles forward to grab the kid's uninjured wrist. Daryl is suddenly flooded with heat as the chink's fingers overlap against Audrey's skin. Molten and scaldin, he doesn't understand the itch through his muscles when the chink tugs her forward. He thinks back to when Walsh did the same thing, three days ago, and how he wanted to punch the son of a bitch. The kid's not a goddamn toy and doesn't need to be hauled around with broken bones and sprained ankles!

"Uhh…" Audrey trails off, pitches against Chinaman as her balance is thrown off. But she doesn't even get the chance to fully answer, to come up with some other excuse. Before she can get another word out, the chink's pullin her along after him, towards where the rest of the group is trudgin up the hill. Grimes and Walsh are at the head, Jim supported between them, and it's yet another funeral procession, line of head hung people shufflin up into the trees, into the hills.

Daryl grits his teeth, casts half a glance back at his truck, before reluctantly followin. Just to make sure the idiots don't do somethin stupid to get someone bit. But one thing's for certain…

He ain't diggin any more fuckin holes.

* * *

><p>If it wasn't for the rise and fall of his chest, I'd say Jim was already dead.<p>

His skin is grey and pallid, beaded with sweat. There are black circles under his eyes; his clothes are disheveled and askew. Eyes closed and breathing nothing more than labored wheezes, I can't help but think Daryl's pickaxe would have been more merciful than this.

Everyone's in tears or on the verge of them. Even Shane has a hitch in his voice.

"Hey Jim," the former cop says. He's bent over the dying man and, though I can't see his face, his voice tells of devastation all the same. "I mean…you know it doesn't need to be like this." He says it like we have other options and Jim's choosing the wrong one. He says it like Jim's not dead either way.

Jim grunts and sighs, a death rattle in the back of his throat. "No. It's…it's good." He winces and cracks open his eyes. "The breeze feels nice." Suddenly, he starts to cough and Shane leans away, conscious of infection. Beside me, Jacqui begins to loudly sob and Glenn tightens his grip around my shoulders. I've tried to move away but he won't let me get far, says he's making sure I don't fall. I think he's just using me as support because I can feel the way his muscles tremble as he fights to stave back tears.

"Okay," Shane whispers. He leans forward again and pats Jim's leg, like that will somehow make dying like this better. "Alright." He stands back and draws abreast of Rick, stands in front of Lori and Carl to shield them from the view.

Pointless and futile. Carl saw worse last night.

When the coughing fit subsides, Jacqui steps up and goes to her knees before Jim. Her shoulders shake but when she speaks, it's surprisingly steady. "Just close your eyes sweetie," she tells him in that motherly manner of hers. "Don't fight." She abruptly leans forwards, presses a kiss against the sharp jut of Jim's cheekbone. The dying man shuts his eyes again at the caress, moves into it. Something dark and nasty at the back of my head wonders if there is something there, two broken people who went looking for solace past the end of the world. I thrust the thought away, almost succeed in feeling guilty, and go back to my previous endeavor of counting the fallen leaves around me.

I hadn't wanted to see this and just because Glenn needed some shoulder to cry on doesn't mean I actually have to pay attention. I've seen enough deaths to last until eternity and I know the future still holds more. Sue me for playing hooky on one.

There's a crunch of leaves and I see a flash of beige in my peripherals as Rick approaches Jim next. Curiously, from what I had seen, the former sheriff looks nearly as heartbroken as Jacqui. Which is strange since Rick's known Jim all of about two days. I wonder if it's just the principle of the matter, a lawman unable to save someone in need. Rick crouches at Jim's feet, mutters something only the other man can hear. Glancing up, I see there's a gun in Rick's hand, the handle instead of the barrel proffered. So. They're giving Jim a way out, even if they're too chickenshit to take it themselves.

The dying man's glassy eyes flutter shut and then open again. He shakes his head, pushes Rick's hand away. I can't hear his voice but I see his lips frame the words, "Take it. You'll need it. I'm okay." He refuses his only way out and resigns himself to living death. I furrow my brow, half wanting to demand _why. _It's a fucking bullet. Take it. You know what happens if you don't.

But he doesn't and Rick relents and the goodbyes continue, the gun stowed away. Dale goes up to replace Rick and imparts a few last words; then Andrea; T-Dog, Lori and finally Glenn. I don't listen to what they are saying. It doesn't matter either way. I'm just considering turning around and hobbling back down to the road, now that Glenn is distracted and Lori and Carol have already taken the children away, when a thought stops me cold.

It's the barest frame of a notion, filled in with wisps of a nightmare, a memory, but it's there. And I can't get rid of it. And maybe, even if I couldn't save Amy or Abby, anyone I've ever cared about, maybe I can still help Jim in one last way. Resolved and not giving a second thought to my actions, I stay rooted to my spot, eyes down cast as Rick and Shane file past me. Rick pauses as if he wants to say something but when I turn my face resolutely away, he keeps going. Shane doesn't stop but he does pat my shoulder, another awkward attempt to make it all better. I repress the urge to move out from under his touch.

When it's only Glenn and Jim and me, Glenn turned around and Jim not caring about my presence either way, I reach up and harshly rub my eyes. Pain flares, sharp and bright, especially under the swollen, tender skin of my left eye, but the motion produces the desired affect. Within seconds, tears well up and wet my lashes, spill onto my cheeks when I press so hard I see starbursts of red and orange and purple. I try to make my expression as morose as possible but can't seem to remember the exact way to align the muscles in my face. In the end, I settle with pressing my lips tightly together and hope it'll work all the same.

"Audrey?!"

Glenn's voice draws my head up and I find him staring at me in pain, concern, and…relief. I think _here we go _and he's at my side in seconds. "Are you okay?" he whispers, reaches out for me, hand on my hip and another on my cheek. I force myself to let him draw me closer, to not pull away. I force myself to nod, and then shake my head.

"Yeah…no. I mean I just…I want to say goodbye." Not really, not truly. Glenn doesn't need to know that.

"Yeah, yeah." His thumb strokes across the arch of my cheek, soft and gentle. My skin feels tight and uncomfortable. "I'll…I'll help you. Here, let's just…"

"No." This time I do pull away. I cast my mind about for an appropriate excuse. "No I…I want to do it alone. I…just a few seconds." It's hard to keep my face so animated; the tears are already drying on my cheeks. "Please."

I don't know if it's the tears, the way I crack my voice, or the expression I've managed to make but after a few seconds of staring into my eyes—_please don't see; please don't see I'm lying—_Glenn relents. He nods and just gives in, all too fucking easy. I try to feel guilty; I can't manage it.

"Alright," he says. He reaches out and takes my left hand, squeezes I guess to give me strength. "I'll…just…"

"Wait by the road," I tell him. "I'll be done in a few minutes."

_Please just leave. Don't ask questions. Just go._

Amazingly, Glenn gives my hand one last squeeze and finally draws back. He passes me without looking back at Jim and when I glance over my shoulder to watch as he makes his way down the hill, ever so often stopping to look back, I know his eyes only see me. Finally, when I think he's far enough, can't see the details, I move forward.

Jim looks surprised to see me; at least I think he does. He doesn't have much strength to fully make expressions any more. He gazes up at me with sunken in eyes and wheezes quietly, his hourglass almost up. I bite my lip, let the pain center me, and wipe the fake tears from my cheeks as I squat down to look him in the eye.

"Hello." I can't think of anything else to say.

Jim swallows harshly, his Adam's apple bobbing before he rasps out, "Hi."

My ribs and ankle protest my position; sweat is beading on my brow; I'm acutely aware of the time slipping past us, and the eyes on my back. "I…I'm not sure what to say," I begin honestly.

A startled laugh bursts out of the man before me, jagged and harsh. He looks so frail, haggard and worn. "Well," he huffs. "'_I'm sorry'_ seems to be a popular choice."

"Something tells me no amount of apologies would make you feel better."

Jim nods slowly, lets his head loll back against the tree. His eyes though, they stay pretty focused. "You'd be right there." Abruptly, he chokes, sputters. Craning his neck to the side he begins to cough and blood, bright and scarlet, dribbles from his lips. Without thinking, I reach out to steady him but he pushes my hands away. His skin is more than feverish where it touches mine, nearly in flames. "No!" he gasps out. "No, don't. I don't…don't wanna hurt you."

I bite my lip but heed his words, last wish of a dying man. This coughing fit lasts longer, is more violent, and when it ends Jim can barely keep his eyes open. He manages, just a little, just so he can look me in the face. "Miss Bennett, you don't have to me here," he mutters and I think it might be the first time he's ever said my name. "Go on. I'm fine. I'm okay."

_You're not. You're dying. _

"Why didn't you take the gun?" I blurt out instead of refusing him. I want to know before…

Jim groans and tosses his head from side to side. The fever is eating away at his lucidity, slowly, but he's still in enough pain to be clear and focused on my question. "Because you all need it more than me," he answers.

_Because you still have a chance _is what he leaves unsaid but I hear it all the same. I don't tell him a chance of living hell is no chance at all. I don't tell him that a part of me wishes our places were reversed. I don't tell him anything. Because, in the distance, I hear an engine suddenly turn over, a car rumble to life.

I've run out of time.

We both have.

I have to say it; there's no more time to waste.

Shifting so I'm on my knees and leaning right over Jim, I tilt my head down and look into his half lidded eyes. He tries to move away but no longer has the energy. "Jim," I say firmly, quietly. "Do you want this?" The dying man moans out a broken laugh and I realize I've been misunderstood. "That's not what I meant," I rush to tell him, thinking I hear someone call my name. No. Not now. I still have to do this. I need to do this. I cannot leave.

"I meant…" The words don't come to me. For all my love of books and words, I am utterly speechless. Not knowing what else to do, I fumble for my hip, tug, and the slowing setting afternoon sun glints off the length of my tanto, poised between Jim and I.

The older man gasps at the blade, clicks his fading eyes up to mine. There's a question in his face, a question…and a plea. "Miss Bennett," he starts again but I cut him off. I need to hurry, get this out. He needs to make a decision.

"I can't change what happened. I can't and I'm sorry," I say and for the first time, it's the truth. "But…I can give you a choice."

And there it is. My haphazard thought. What I really stayed to do. All out in the open. I tell myself Jim is dead anyway; I tell myself I'm saving him from an existence of living death. I know I'm grasping for excuses to cover up the truth of my actions. Glenn would be so disgusted if he was here, so ashamed. He wouldn't understand; he would hate me. In some ways, I hate myself. But that is nothing new.

Lifting my hand, I level the tanto with Jim's eyes but he isn't looking at the blade; he's looking at me. There's a glimmer in his eyes that cracks something in my chest, sharp and close, and I inhale sharply at the pain. I push through it; ignore it. It will be gone soon anyway, drowned under ice and snow and blood.

"I…I can't ask that of you Miss Ben—" Jim tries. I interrupt him once again.

"You don't have to. I'm offering. If…if that is what you want," I say and isn't this a fucked up world? Here I am, politely offering to kill a man and he's looking at me like I'm some saving fucking grace.

_Please. Please Audie. _

Jim finally drops his eyes to the tanto, takes in the light slanting off the blade. He gulps, licks the blood off his lips. Actually considers what I've offered. "How…" He clears his throat. "How would you...?" Trails off. Can't bring himself to say it.

_How would you murder me?_

"Base of the skull," I murmur. The words slide off my tongue now. Turning my neck, I demonstrate on myself. All so very clinical. Like I'm discussing the weather. "The small hollow there. It's…it's quick."

_Quick and slick. A rush of blood. A jerk. It's over. _

Laughing again, higher pitched and broken, Jim says as if in jest, "Almost sounds like you've done this before."

_Blonde hair. Amber eyes. A broken house and a city in flames. __**Please don't let them take me Audie. **_

"I have," I respond. The words feel like glass coming up, tearing pieces of my throat. I taste blood and bile. Never said it before. Never out loud.

_I have. _

_I have I haveIhave. _

_I've killed. _

Jim has just enough energy to widen his eyes but I don't want to see the disgust in them, the abhorrence. Already, something is swelling in the back of my throat, making it hard to breathe. What a peculiar feeling. What happened to the ice?

"Do you want it Jim? If not then I'll go. But if you do…if you do we don't have much time left." The man's breath has grown short and choppy. His skin burns from a foot away; his muscles have started to twitch and will soon give way to full spasms. I've lingered too long; people will come looking soon.

Going once.

Going twice.

This is a man's life and I'm rushing it as if impatient.

"I…" Jim begins, stops, starts again. "I don't…want to be like **them.**" He shudders, terror in his voice. "I don't want to become one."

He looks up at me, eyes suddenly clear, and reaches forward, fumbles for my hand. He finds it and clings, one last chance of human contact. His skin blazes so hot I wonder how his brain hasn't boiled. I wonder if he really realizes what I'm asking, what he's agreeing to.

I tell myself he does. I tell myself he wants this and I'm only helping ease his pain.

"I…shouldn't ask this…of you but…please. _Please," _Jim struggles out, words distorted and watery. Blood clogs this throat and taints his words.

I nod and swallow, the feeling in my chest constricting my lungs. What is happening? "Okay. Okay."

Suddenly, the hilt of my tanto is slick in my hand. My heartbeat roars through my ears. I start to feel something crawl through veins, thick and slow and I try to out run it. Move fast so it can't catch me. One moment, I'm kneeling there in the dirt; the next, I'm hunched over Jim, my right hand cradling his head, the left inching forward to do what I have been asked to. I don't remember moving and it suddenly strikes me how surreal this is: side of the road, middle of nowhere Georgia, and I'm holding this man's life in my hands; I'm about to take it away.

A few months ago I was normal.

A few months ago…

I freeze when I've wormed my hand between Jim's head and the tree; I don't know why but I do. Something in me says I should say…anything really. But nothing comes to mind. What do you say right before you kill a man? They never taught this in school. Are you supposed to say _I'm sorry? _Are you supposed to let them have last words? _Are you supposed to say nothing at all? _I don't know. I don't know and now I'm stuck here, running out of time, Jim's last breaths fanning across my collarbone.

When I can't bare the silence any more, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I hope you find your family." I remember what Jim said, about losing his family, having them ripped from him. It's not an _I'm sorry, _it's not an empty platitude. The sincerity of my statement tastes like blood in my mouth and it's only then that I realize I've bitten through my cheek.

Jim blinks and then goes lax; he smiles, nice and easy and nods like he's ready. _Last chance. _

For what? To back out? To go through with this? To save Jim? To save myself?

All of the above and yet none of them at all.

Sliding forward, I place the tanto at the base of Jim's skull, tip catching on the skin there. The area is fragile, soft, like the spot on the top of a baby's head. It should be so easy. It will be. Is this really happening? It is. Take a deep breath Audrey. This ain't so bad. This ain't nothing new. What's a little more blood? You're already going to hell.

Jim starts to shudder harder, bones rattling beneath his skin, painful gasps slipping across my neck and I've run out of time. This is it. Inhale. Exhale. Close my eyes. Just a flick of the wrist, a bite of a blade. No different than all those walkers you put down.

_Different in every fucking way._

"Goodbye Jim."

Just as my hand twitches upward, just as the blade slots home, right before brain turns into organic mush, I hear two words, mouthed into the skin of my throat.

"Thank you_."_

Hilt meets base of skull with a slick _**give, **_warmth blooming across my hand. Jim wrenches in my grasp once before falling still, last breath brushing my chin. He's gone. I did it. I saved him.

**You killed him. **

The words crash against the inside of my skull with the sound of shattering glass. I blink and fumble back, thrown off balance. The feeling in my veins swells and, suddenly, bursts.

**Murderer. **

"_Thank you." _

**Just like Kaleigh. **

"_Please Audie. Don't let them take me."_

**You killed them. Murderer.**

It happens so very suddenly. One moment, everything is grey and cold, tinged around the edges with pain and monochrome color. Jim was going to die anyway; I'm saving him; I don't care either way, can't feel it either way. And now…it's neon and hi-def, sounds in stereo, and sensation…sensation is excruciating. _I just killed someone. He was still living. He was still breathing. I made it so he wasn't anymore. I killed him. _It's like I've been tossed out of a freezing lake, feeling coming back to me in a rush of blood. My heart feels like it will slam to a stop; I know it won't.

Jim's blood feels like acid on my skin, burning, scalding, down to the bone—**youkilledhimmurderer-**and I can't breathe. Can't breathe, can't breathe, dots in my vision as I gasp for oxygen, suffocating. Ever since Amy died, I've been in this glass box, watching the world pass me by behind soundproof planes of ice. Nothing could reach me; I couldn't reach out. In fact, I didn't want to. Didn't want to feel so I didn't. Opted out. But now, I have no choice. But now, that glass box has shattered, the floors fallen out from under me, and I'm left with all these jagged pieces skewering every inch of my skin.

_**Oh god. **_

**You killed him! You killed her! **

**MURDERER! **

I don't realize I'm moving until I fall on my ass, pain jolting up my tailbone. But it's nothing like the pain in my chest, the crawling sensation I tried to ignore before revealing itself to be my ribs cracking open, stabbing me from the inside out. I blink and tears I was unaware of tumble down my cheeks. Vision blurred, I can vaguely make out the outline of Jim, slumped against the tree, seemingly asleep. Except he's not. He's dead. _**I killed him. **_Looking down, my eyes fall to the tanto still clenched in my fingers, scarlet coated silver gleaming wetly in the afternoon sun. Jim's blood. Kaleigh's. Should be mine. I deserve it. Not them.

_It should be mine. _

The words are screaming in my skull and after so long of muted volumes, muted feelings, I think I might come apart at the seams. What have I done? I scramble for the ice in my chest, the snow, the glacier, but it melts beneath my fingers, melts into lava and consumes every inch of me. Distantly, I'm aware of a whimpering noise. It takes me a moment to realize it's me.

I try to get a grip; try to calm down. I remember I had something to do, somewhere to be. But I can't. I can't and I just sit there in the dirt feeling my skin split open as I hear a crunch of dry leaves behind me. Someone's coming. The group. The road. The caravan They'll see. They'll know. My fingers tremble along the hilt, slick and warm, and I turn around just as the footsteps reach me, ready to face Glenn's horror and condemnation because _I deserve it and so much worse. _

But Glenn's nowhere to be found. Instead, Daryl stands in his place, five feet away, his blue eyes burning into me. For a moment, I think this is even worse and I don't know why. Silently, I wait for the disgust to shine through the shocked expression in his eyes, the slight part of his lips. Silently, I wait for anything.

_You killed them. _

I know. Tears stream down my face, feeling like acid. **I know.** And now Daryl knows it too.

* * *

><p>Daryl doesn't really understand how he got here. He was headin back to his truck a few moments ago, the kid in the hands of Chinaman and the rest of them, and then he was walkin back up the hill again. He vaguely remembers turnin around, seein the chink and everyone else standin by the RV, Audrey somehow missin. He kind of recalls edgin closer, hearin them talk, hearin Chinaman say somethin bout leavin her up there to say goodbye. But then the old man pulled the chink away, needin his help on some last minute fixes to the RV, and everyone started goin their own direction. The kid was still up there though and suddenly, Daryl found himself stepping off the road again, ignorin Walsh's eyes on his back as he trudged back up to where they left the dyin man and where, apparently, Audrey was still sayin goodbye.<p>

Somethin bout that didn't sit right with Daryl. Maybe it had somethin to do with the kid's cold laugh in the truck; maybe it had somethin to do with the dullness of her eyes. Either way, Daryl was confused as to why she would stay behind to say goodbye when five minutes ago she didn't seem to care bout Jim's death either way. Yeah. Somethin wasn't right.

And it seems like his instincts were right cuz here he is, towerin over Audrey, a bloodied sword in her hand and her suddenly crystal clear eyes tearin into him as tears stream down her cheeks.

For a second, he doesn't comprehend what he's seeing. He doesn't understand the kid sprawled in the dirt, the blood, the devastated expression on her face. But then he looks up, sees how Jim's slumped against the tree. He sees the splatter of blood on the bark behind his head. He sees…and quickly gets it.

His lips part, a surprised inhale, but he has nothin to say. The kid doesn't say anythin either. Nothin to explain or defend herself; she doesn't lie. She could. She could just say Jim died while they were talkin and she put a sword through his skull just to make sure he didn't get back up again. But Daryl wonders if she could even manage that. She looks broken, like she did two nights ago, blood on her hands again and her friend dead a few feet away. This time, however, her eyes don't go blank. This time, she gazes up at him with terror and guilt and agony and he just _knows _Jim hadn't stopped breathin before he bit Audrey's blade.

He's shocked. Thrown for a loop. Never in a million years would he have thought the kid could do this. Under that shock…under that he doesn't know what he's feelin, can't pinpoint it exactly, but it's somethin like respect; it's somethin like admiration.

Audrey makes a noise then, sharp and shattered. Daryl blinks and focuses in on her, takes in her face, so animated after so long. Her lip's tremblin as she gazes back at him, her eyes wide and limpid and…pleading. Tears carve grooves in her cheeks and there's a fine mist of blood along her neck and collarbone, stark against her pale skin. She's shakin ever so slightly and breathin in wheezin gasps. Daryl thinks she's gonna vomit or have an asthma attack. He starts forward, not knowin what he's gonna do, but Audrey wrenches away, shuffles back until she's pressed against Jim's outstretched legs. Daryl pauses, hand extended, and takes in the terrified light in her eyes. There's somethin else there too, a glimmer, a spark, and he remembers seein it just yesterday, a flash as they cleaved in the heads of fallen camp members.

Recognition is like a punch to the gut and he loses what little breath he had left in his lungs.

He couldn't place it **then** but now it's suddenly all too clear why the look was so familiar. He had seen it a million times before, seen it almost everyday of his childhood. That look…it was the same look his Mama always had: three parts a broken heart and one part fear that another blow was comin and this one would break her completely. Daryl doesn't know what the kid's thinkin, can't even begin to guess, but it can't be anythin good and if she's reactin like this, she must be back to normal. And by normal he meant wearin her heart on her sleeve only to have it skewered. For the amount of discomfort the kid's detached apathy caused him, Daryl almost wishes for it back. Anythin but this. It reminds him a little of the day he first met her, told her they was nothin left in Atlanta. How it broke her; how she grieved. Except this is worse. Much worse. Then, she got _angry; _she got pissed and screamed and ranted at the world. Damned God for everythin.

Now, she just looks shattered, crushed. She looks like her world's fallin out from under her and she's resigned to let it happen. It's painful to see and Daryl doesn't know what to do. He ain't like Chinaman, ain't like the rest of them. He doesn't know how to say comfortin shit; it never works anyway. He's never even had a goddamn friend before. What's he supposed to do?

Nothin comes to him but he's gotta do _**somethin**_. They're bout to leave. And the others…

Daryl suddenly decides they can't see Audrey like this. It's a sudden thought but it seizes him with intensity. He remembers how they reacted to his plan back at camp, how they recoiled from burnin the bodies and anythin the kid said in line with his own words. If they see this…they'll be the final blow that completely breaks her. Daryl might not care for any of those assholes, might not care what the fuck they think, but they were the kid's friends and them reactin to the blood on Audrey's hands wouldn't end well for anyone.

So he moves without thinkin and he moves without hesitatin. He steps forward into the kid's space, bends down quickly before she can move away again. She flinches bodily at his proximity, cringes like he'll hit her. He ignores it, guilt prickin in his chest all the same, and snags the short sword from her lax fingers, palm slidin through the warm blood that's coverin the hilt. With his other hand, he tugs a rag out of his back pocket, soiled and already dirty. The fabric's white, an old wifebeater, and it immediately stains vermillion as he rubs it along the length of the blade and across the hilt. Sword clean, he moves on. The kid's right where he left her when he looks up: laid out in the dirt, cringin back into Jim's dead body. Her shoulders shake and Daryl thinks she's cryin, can't see her face as it's downcast, starin at the blood on her hands, bright and curlin in interestin patters. It's like a brand on her skin; Daryl needs to get it off and fast.

"C'mere kid," he grunts. Audrey snaps her head up as if she had forgotten he was there and the hunter can't stand the look behind her wet emerald eyes. He reaches down and grabs her wrist, tugs her up as slowly and as easily as he can manage. She still hisses in protest, stumbles on uneasy footin, careens into his chest and for a second he freezes, feels her press into him, thin and warm and tremblin. He smells blood and sweat and somethin familiar that he cannot name, somethin sweet.

Then she pushes away, pulls back, and Daryl sees the way she's shakin her head, garbled words fallin off her lips. She fights him, halfheartedly, and he ain't got time for it.

"Hey! Hey quit it," he grunts. He gets hold of her left wrist, the uninjured one, and pins it between their chests. "Kid, enough!" Somethin in his tone pulls her up short cuz Audrey goes still after that, chest heavin and starin up at him with wide, wide eyes. Relief is instantaneous but soon evaporates when he realizes they still gotta get goin. Those assholes will be lookin for them soon. Droppin his gaze, he takes a step back, puts some air between them though he doesn't let go of her wrist. Quickly, he starts to wipe the blood from her skin.

"Gotta go kid," he says quietly, the same tone he used to calm frightened mares with. "Come on." When no more blood can be see, at least from a distance, he tosses the rag to the ground and kicks it away into the tall grass. Hide the evidence. Let no one see. The kid's breathin heavily and she's starin at him with incomprehension, those green eyes of hers diggin under his skin. He pulls away, skin stretched tight, and picks up her sword where he'd dropped it in the grass.

"Come on," he repeats and motions for Audrey to follow him. She blinks, once, twice, and starts to turn, look back at the body behind her, but he doesn't let her. He extends his arm, makes to grab her wrist again, but misses when she shifts back. Off balance and overreachin, he ends up grabbin her hand.

He goes rigid when he realizes what's happened, thinks bout pullin away. The kid's hand is thin beneath his grip, sharp bones pushin against frail thin. It's warm too and slightly damp. Lookin down, he sees how his fingers completely engulf hers, callous scrapin against the top of her hands. His cheeks burn hot, though he doesn't know why, and he's just about to tug back when the kid inches closer. He looks up to find her starin at him again, gaze wide open and trustin and he can't find it in himself to do it. Can't shove her away cuz when he thinks bout it, all he can picture are bruises bloomin beneath his hands, his brother's, and the poison he never wanted, coursin through his veins. Grindin his teeth, he tightens his grip and pulls lightly on the kid's hand. She follows the movement slowly, like a small child, and soon enough they're trailin down the hill hand in hand. Every so often, the kid will seize, stop, and Daryl will turn to see her lookin up the hill. Her eyes will grow wet again, her face will bleed through several different heart wrenching emotions. He never pauses to watch them; he just tugs on her hand a little firmer, makes her get movin again. By the time they reach the road, she doesn't have to be prompted anymore, instead nearly glued to his back, shudderin breaths fannin across the back of his neck. He thinks they feel like sobs.

It's right before they step off the shoulder that Daryl realizes he's still holdin Audrey's short sword in his hand. He curses, tries to let go of her fingers, but she suddenly won't let him. Her hand clamps down on his, nails diggin deep, and he hears somethin that sounds suspiciously like a whimper crawl out of her throat. He tries one more time and gets the same result: harsh clench and a whine. Cursin again, feelin Walsh's eyes on him, he pulls the kid abruptly to his side, usin his body as a shield from pryin eyes. Audrey gasps, stumbles, but steadies herself with his hand and it's while she's distracted that he slips the blade back into its sheathe. The muffled rasp doesn't even register for the kid and Daryl tries to ignore how tightly she's holdin his hand. The angle is awkward like this, however, him holdin her left hand but tryin to keep her on his left side. It doesn't work, they keep trippin, and eventually Daryl has no choice but to firmly yank his hand away.

"Keep walkin," he says to the kid when she gasps and fumbles. His fingertips cradle her elbow and he propels her forward. "Yer fine. Go on." He's all too aware of how people are starin, his neck burns with the weight of their stares, but he ignores them all as he nudges Audrey back to his truck. However, as they pass Walsh's Jeep, the bastard of course stops him, hand on his shoulder and up in his face. Daryl bares his teeth and wrenches away; Audrey stumbles and catches herself on the bumper of the Jeep, hisses when she jars her wrist.

"The hell ya want Walsh?" Daryl finds himself snarlin before he can even process his words. Fire burns through his veins and he ain't above punchin this son of a bitch; has been itchin for it since day one and just give him a goddamn excuse.

The former cop scowls at his tone, brown eyes hard and sharp as he glares. "What's goin on?" he demands. He jerks his head at the kid, looks back at Daryl like he wishes he could still arrest him and throw away the key. The accusation ain't even subtle.

"Gettin back on the road," Daryl spits out. He just wants to get back in his truck. "Do I need yer goddamn permission to drive my own vehicle now?" He's bein antagonistic and knows it. Daryl just doesn't give a shit.

Walsh purses his lips and tugs up the brim of his cap, puffs out his chest and shifts so Daryl can see his shotgun loungin in the passenger seat at his back. He cuts a glance at Audrey and back at Daryl, leaves the question hangin between them. Daryl knows the kid's tears ain't exactly hidden, knows she's still makin the odd noise here and there, knows how just fuckin lost she looks. But it ain't his goddamn fault and he's fuckin tired of everyone just assumin that anythin gone wrong has got _Dixon _written all over it.

"He died," he grinds out bluntly, not in the mood to pussy foot around. "She saw it. Anythin else?"

The announcement of Jim's death seems to catch Walsh off guard. His expression is actually startled blank, mouth fallin open. He gapes, grasps for words, but Daryl doesn't wait around. Shoulderin past the former cop, he collects the kid from where she's leanin listlessly against the Jeep and shepherds her back to the truck. Once he's got her in the passenger seat, blades off and on the floor, he jogs around to driver's side, jumps in and starts the engine. In front of him, everyone else begins to do the same. Daryl is antsy, waitin for Walsh to get the fuck behind the wheel. He just wants to get goin; he just wants to get gone. It takes a few minutes but eventually, they do and Daryl can breathe a little easier.

Until he looks over and sees the kid cryin in the seat beside him. Teeth dug sharp into her split lip, the kid shakes with silent sobs, face gleamin wet in the afternoon sun. She looks like she's bout to come apart at the seams; she looks like she'll just shake out of her bones. Daryl squirms in discomfort, neck and cheeks on fire, and turns his attention to the road. He slams the gear into drive and pulls out after Walsh, joinin the caravan once more.

He doesn't miss how the kid presses her face into the window, doesn't miss how she cranes her neck and stares back at that hill long after they've left it behind. He doesn't miss any of it.

He just doesn't know what to do bout it.

There ain't a manual for this kinda thing. _How to be a friend. _Bullshit. Daryl is fumblin in the dark here. The kid's just killed a man. Sure it was a mercy killin; sure Daryl understood and didn't see much wrong in it. But the kid, apparently, saw it different. And the hunter didn't know what to do. A part of him regrets decidin Audrey was his friend. Then he's reminded it wasn't really any of his choice. The kid snuck up on him and now he's gotta deal with this shit cuz…well just fuckin cuz.

When they take a sharp turn in the road, unexpectedly, and the kid gets thrown into his side and never really rights herself, stays pressed lightly into his arm, Daryl wonders what the fuck he's gotten himself into.

#

Just as the sun sinks below the horizon, they hit the CDC.

From the get go, things look like shit and it only goes downhill from there.

There are bodies _everywhere, _cloggin the streets, the sidewalks, strewn across barricades and military tanks. They can't get the cars close enough, are forced to park more than a hundred yards from the actual buildin. In the growin dark, Daryl ain't likin the odds of walkin out in the open.

But it's not like he's got a choice. The rest of the group starts pourin out their vehicles and Daryl sees Walsh stop and stare at him through his windshield, makes a curt gesture for him to get out.

Tch. Easier said than fuckin done.

He turns to his right and what he sees ain't any different than any other time he's looked in the past hours. The kid's still cryin though the sobs have stopped. It's just silent tears now, the occasional sniffle. Doesn't mean it's any less uncomfortable. Doesn't mean Daryl now knows what to do. He thinks bout grabbin Chinaman, givin the kid to him. The idea is gone as fast as it came and Daryl finds himself openin the kid's door before he even realizes he's out of the truck.

Audrey jumps bodily the second the door open. She cringes away, doesn't even notice it's Daryl before she's tryin to crawl across the bench seat. The hunter puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her so she's lookin in his eyes. "Hey! Listen up kid," he says. She stills under his fingers and blinks up him. "We gotta get inside the damn buildin so ya gotta get up on yer feet." He steps back and nods at her, motions for her to get on her feet. She doesn't, just starts to shake her head.

"I…" she says and her voice is wrecked. "I…Daryl…Jim…I _can't_..." She starts to shake again and Daryl hears Walsh snap his name at a distance. He turns to see the cop glarin at them, makin sharp movements for them to get their asses in gear. Daryl bites his tongue, tastes blood, and whirls on the kid. He reaches in the truck, grabs her good hand, tugs her out of the car. She falls into his chest again but he rights her immediately, leanin past her to grab her swords.

"Here." He pushes the smaller sheathe into her left hand, quickly slings the full length sword over her head, ignorin how he has his arms all the way round her. She needs to be armed. They're in the goddamn city; walkers are probably everywhere. They ain't got time for her to be babied and coddled.

"W…wha?" Audrey slurs when he steps back, still holdin her short sword limply. Her eyes, bright with unshed tears, stare up at him in confusion and she might not be detached like before, but she's still out of it, just in a different way. It could still get her killed.

Runnin out of patience, Daryl grabs the kid by the shoulders and _shakes her. _She flops in his grasp, thin and frail, and cries out when it starts to hurt. Guilt is a knife in his ribs but Daryl pushes through it. "Snap the fuck outta it kid," he snaps at her. "Ya hear me?" She nods spastically, pain in her eyes, but finally there's some recognition there too.

"O…w. Y…Y…yeah," she gasps. "Yes."

"Good." He steps back, feels vaguely sick at the indents he's left pressed into her shirt. "Now put…put that on," he points to the blade at her hand, then turns around and looks for walkers, lets the kid pull herself together. He hears her sniffle, a ruffle of clothin, a cleared throat and then a minute later she's at his side. The sword's at her hip, her cheeks are dry though her eyes are still red and she still trembles ever so slightly. It'll have to do though; they have to get movin.

They catch up to the others quickly, even with the kid's ankle, and Daryl avoids meetin any of their eyes. Especially Walsh. If the sound wouldn't draw so many walkers, Daryl is sure the former cop would put a round right between his eyes here and now for how hard he's glarin. He must of seen him shake the kid. Daryl can't get himself to care cuz it got her movin didn't it? Walsh can fuck off.

Nevertheless, the chink glues himself to Audrey's side the second they're close enough. Sneaks a glance at him and it's _scared _and _accusin. _Seems like Walsh wasn't the only one to thinks _fuck it _and sticks to the back of the group, makin sure nothin pops up and bites them in the ass, passes the kid off and pretends he doesn't feel funny while doin it. Chinaman will watch her, draw her to the center of everyone else, with the kids and other women. She'll be safe enough. He grounds himself in other things, the bodies, the scene before him, anythin to not think bout the way the kid keeps lookin back at him, green eyes finding his even across the distance.

* * *

><p>The smell is really the first thing to hit me.<p>

Yes, the pain—_god the pain raw and red hot—_is there too, and so is Daryl's voice—_Snap the fuck out of it. Ya hear me? _But it all happens so fucking fast. I'm in Daryl's truck. I'm crying. It hurts. **I killed him. **And then Daryl's talking to me, he shakes me, more pain, I'm moving. Before I can fully realize it, Glenn's at my side, hovering at my shoulder, and _**the smell. **_

It's horrid; gag inducing. More tears flood my eyes and I start to cough, pressing the back of my wrist to my mouth to keep from vomiting. It's then that I notice the bodies. They're _everywhere. _Beneath my feet, at my side, stretching to the horizon. It's a battlefield and it looks like our side lost.

All around me, the group coughs and gags. I hear someone whimpering and this time it's not me, turn to look and find Sophia and Carl pressed to their mother's sides, clinging. Rick and Shane keep shushing everyone, demanding silence, for people to keep moving. For a moment, it doesn't even process where we are. I don't even know what we're doing. But then, we pass the sign: cement with a blue insignia. _CDC: Center for Disease Control. _

The CDC.

A cure.

Now unnecessary.

Because Jim's dead.

I killed him.

_**Murderer. **_

The though almost stops me, almost makes me drop, but then someone prods me in the back and I turn. It isn't until I'm staring into Jacqui's brown eyes that I realize I was expecting Daryl.

"Come on sweetie," Jacqui whispers. Her voice is watery and scared. "Keep going."

I can do nothing but obey as Glenn pushes me forward, through the rank smell and hordes of flies, both threatening to suffocate me, both trying to snake down my throat and drown me.

Keep going Audrey. Keep going.

Come on sweetie.

Snap the fuck out of it.

We gotta get inside the damn buildin so ya gotta get up on yer feet.

Keep going. Keep enduring.

Even though you don't deserve it.

The shutters are down when we finally reach the building. Pristine and silver, they seem to mock us. People begin to shuffle about, nervous, frightened. Glenn has one hand wrapped around a shotgun and the other on my shoulder as Rick and Shane try the doors. They're locked, of course. Closed. Barred. The truth of the situation permeates the air in the way Lori gasps, how Carl whines and when T-Dog curses. "There's nobody here!" he says. I look back to see him bouncing from foot to foot, rifle jittery in his hands. Glenn's grip tightens on my shoulder.

Rick shudders out a breath, looks around in a crazed way. "Then why are these shutters down?" he mutters, almost to himself, like he's grasping for ideas because he can't be wrong. _He can't be. _In my gut, I have this sinking feeling he is. Does it matter? Jim's dead anyway. And now, maybe, so am I.

Tears sting the backs of my eyes and I **hate **them, hate the weakness, hate how the self loathing in my veins makes me want to wrestle Glenn's gun from him and shove it under my chin. I look down, see Carl a few feet away, remember my promise to keep him and Sophia safe. Realize I will most likely fail him, fail him like I've failed everyone I've ever cared about.

A bullet is no less than I deserve.

"Walkers!"

Daryl's voice is like a gunshot of its own in the dark bruise of twilight. I whirl to see him get a geek in his sights, aim, and fire. The bolt punches through its forehead and the body drops with a wet sounding _thud. _Carl begins to cry in earnest, as does Sophia, and their mothers pull them tight as if their arms alone can protect them. Glenn curses, bright and scared in my ear. "Shit! Shit, shit, **shit!**" It's nothing like Daryl though who, upon seeing three more bodies in the distance, four, five, _**ten**_, whirls on Rick like a rabid dog.

"You led us into a graveyard!" he roars. Stalking forward, he advances on Rick and even in the dark, I can see the intense gleam in his blue eyes. He's scared, pissed off, and has every right to be. We're out in the open, too far from the cars, it's almost full dark, and walkers are coming. My throat goes dry and, despite the fact that I deserve it, the notion of getting torn to shreds sends a spike of terror down my spine.

Dale tries to reason with the hunter says, "He made a call!" But Daryl is having none of it.

"It was the wrong damn call!" he shouts. "It's got us killed!" He pushes forward into Rick's face, throws a hand out behind him and gestures to the building number of walkers on the horizon. They can't seem to navigate the barricades, stumble and fall, but they get back up. They always get back up.

"Just shut up Dixon!" I turn to see Shane shoving himself between Daryl and Rick, bodily pushing Daryl back until the hunter stumbles. "You hear me?! Shut up! Shut the **fuck **up!" He gets a hand up in Daryl's face and I can see how this is escalating, see how Shane's making a fist and getting ready to throw it. Too many feelings, too much adrenaline. We don't have time for it.

I don't even realize I've moved until I'm catching Shane's arm and dragging him back, ducking around him and standing in front of Daryl. The cop gapes at me but I don't let him get a word in, mouth already running away from me. "Shane stop! We have more important things to worry about!" As if to support me, a walker groans not too far away, loud and bone chilling.

Shane blinks and growls, eyes clicking over my shoulder to glare at Daryl, but he seems to come back to himself because his eyes clear and he whirls back on Rick. The two cops start talking in rough voices, arguing, but I pay them no mind. One crisis averted, I glance back at Daryl to see him scowling at Shane's back. I reach out and touch his arm, draw his attention, and nod behind him.

"We need to make sure they don't get too close," I tell him. I unsheathe my katana and wince at the painful pull of muscles. "Don't…don't waste a bolt if they're still farther out."

Daryl looks at me as if I'm insane; maybe I am. I know I'm all over the place, crying one minute, on battle mode the next. But it's easier like this. Life on the line, I don't have to think of anything else. Just stay out of a walker's reach. Fight. Survive. Nothing else. All other matters fade away. I'm aware that it's a coping mechanism. I'm aware it's not healthy.

Caring about that in this instance is a little hard to do.

At our backs people start to argue, voices overlapping each other, high pitched and frantic. Shane shouts, Rick responds, Lori and Carol yell out about something, and all the while the children cry. I can't keep track of any of their words, noises blending one into the other. Shane's a feral animal, moving through the rest of us, trying to push us back to the cars. Some people stumble past me, arms pulling, words fervent and pleading—_Let's go! We have to move!_—but then Rick's shouting about a camera and the pulling stops.

Rick points to a small white camera, mounted above the shuttered doors. "It moved!" he cries, eyes wide and blue and begging. Shane snarls, says Rick's imagined it, they need to get moving and _**now. **_But Rick's adamant; won't budge even when Shane starts to wrench him back. "I saw it! It moved!" He jerks forward and starts banging on the doors, loud echoes spilling out into the night.

From beside me, Lori suddenly shoves Carl into my side, runs forward to her husband. "Rick! There's nobody here!" The former sheriff ignores her, talks up at the camera.

"I know you're in there! I know you can hear me!"

"Rick! Let it go!" Shane pulling at his partner again.

"There's nobody here Rick! There's nobody here! Listen to be! _There's nobody here!" _Lori, trying to make her husband see reason.

"We're desperate! We have women, children! No food, little fuel! We have nowhere else to go!" And Rick's not hearing any of it, banging on the doors again.

Carl whimpers at my side, presses his face into my ribs. I wince at the pain and reach down instinctively, awkwardly curl my hand around his shoulder and try not to jar my wrist. "It's ok Carl," I mutter to him, eyes taking in the growing numbers of geeks shambling toward us. "It's ok." My sword dangles at my side, scrapes across the ground, and I wonder how we are going to make it back to the cars. I wonder if any of us will make it at all.

Daryl curses at my side and I watch him shoot another bolt into a walker who's gotten a little too close. It tumbles to the ground but more rise up to replace it. I glance over and see Daryl's only got three bolts left. Our ammo is in a similar state and discharging guns will only draw more.

"_**You're killing us!**__" _Rick shouts at my back.

Carl cries, wetness on my ribs, and I've made a decision before I realize it. Prying the young boy from me, I turn to Daryl, catch his eye. "Watch him," I say and confusion colors in his blue eyes before he must realize what I mean. He bares his teeth at me.

"Kid, just shut the hell up. Ya ain't—"

"We need to cut a path back to the cars," I snap back, adrenaline like heroin in my veins. I'm already starting forward, hauling my sword up. "Guns will draw too much attention; you have three bolts left. Hand to hand is the only way to—"

"Forget it!" Daryl snarls, takes a step forward so he's in my way. I glare up at him, trying to come up with a retort; vaguely away of Carl tugging at my hand, pain in my wrist, walkers moaning only yards away and all the while Rick screaming:

"_**You're killing us! You're KILLING us!"**_

"It's not like I don't deserve it!" I spit back at Daryl, first thing to come to mind, and his face contorts into something unnamable. He opens his mouth, inhales sharply, ready to fire back, when there's a sharp thud, an elongated hiss, and the two of us spin to see a square of blinding white light as one of the shuttered doors suddenly opens wide.

* * *

><p><strong>(1) A piece of a poem titled <strong>_**Little Beast **_**by Richard Siken. His poems are beautiful and amazing. If you have the time, and are so inclined, I suggest you read them. Title is also from a Richard Siken poem titled _Wishbone. _Sadly, I don't own either of these brilliant poems and I don't use them for profit.  
><strong>

**So? Thoughts? Comments, questions, concerns, confusions, all are welcome! Just drop them in the little box below and I will answer as promptly as possible ;)**

**Also! I was browsing the interwebs recently and I found this picture of a girl and SHE LOOKS EXACTLY HOW I ENVISIONED AUDREY. I don't know who she is, it's not me so I claim no rights to this, but I thought you guys would like to have some visual representation :) So just head over to my profile and go to the link! :D**

**Anyway. Thanks for reading and hopefully reviewing!**

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**

**PS: WHO'S CAUGHT UP ON SEASON 3?! WHO HAS BASICALLY JUST SCREAMED AT THE TV EVERY SUNDAY LIKE I HAVE?!**


	25. Without Your Hand in Mine

**JFC I can't tell you how sorry I am this update has taken .long. I had finals at the beginning of December and then when I came home apparently my family had stacked up 4 months of shit for me to do so I had to run around for a week straight getting shit done. Then it was Christmas and then I got the flu and I must have written this whole thing three times before I was satisfied and *inhales* I'm just so fucking sorry :(**

**Anyway. This is it! I've finished the first season! :D And it only took a year xD haha But really. A year. And i want to thank each one of you guys for reading and following this for so long! And even to the new comers, you guys keep Audrey's story alive so I thank you from the bottom of my heart! :)) More to come in the A/N at the end but on with the show!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC and her specific plot line. I make no profit from this. **

**Warnings: language, mentions of gore and thoughts of suicide**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 25: Without Your Hand in Mine, I Got a Little Lost Along the Way<strong>

* * *

><p>It's like something out of a dream. Or that blank void between consciousness and sleep, where the sun is a steadily growing light against your eyelids, warm and bright and encompassing. It's otherworldly, doesn't seem real, and for just a moment I wonder if I'm already dead and the afterlife really is just a cliché light at the end of a really long tunnel.<p>

But then the light cuts out, the dream fades, and I'm left facing the dark black hole of reality with geeks clambering at my back and an unknown abyss stretching out before me.

My life is only a string of nightmares now. I'd do best to remember that.

People move without hesitation, Rick at the head and Shane not too far behind him. There are barked orders, hushed voices, and then I'm stumbling into the building, Carl's fingers tugging on my belt loop and Daryl's elbow nudging me harshly along. I cast a glance over my shoulder, see sharp blue eyes, a set scowl, and walkers shambling in the twilight beyond. They are so close now; so very close.

"Move," Daryl snaps. His crossbow clips my spine and the pain centers me. I whip my head back around and pay attention to what's ahead, hand slick along the hilt of my katana.

It's massive inside with vaulted ceilings and cold tiled floor. Rick's voice echoes hauntingly as he calls out, "Hello? _Hello?!" _

His voice returns desperate and frenzied, ricochets in my ears. I glance around as the others do; we look for people, a welcoming committee, **anything, **but the large, shadowed room appears empty. There's no one here.

A gun cocks, startlingly loud in the silence and I spare a thought for being wrong as I heft my sword up and slide to stand in front of Carl. Around me, the men put their fingers to the trigger and aim into the darkness before us, waiting with bated breath. There's the sound of shuffling steps and then a man steps out of the shadows, a heavy looking machine gun gripped in his shaking fingers. Lori gasps at my side.

"Oh god."

I sympathize. What's worse huh? Torn apart by walkers or by a spray of bullets?

"A…anybody infected?!" the man calls out. His words are high-pitched and reedy. He sounds almost scared.

Rick is the one to answer him, our self-appointed leader. "One of our group was…he didn't make it."

My hands burn at his words, acid where Jim's blood still clogs my pores. The katana shudders in my grip, my heart beats so hard it hurts, and I would have stumbled if it weren't for Carl, clinging to the back of my shirt. He's whimpering, quiet but still noticeable, and I focus on the feel of his small fingers digging into my spine as I shove the images of glassy eyes, _bluebrownblue, _away. I can't fall apart. Carl needs me; Sophia needs me. I vowed to protect them. Guilt makes me feel heavy but determination keeps me on my feet.

At Rick's words, the man steps further into the light. He's younger than I would have assumed, has almost a full head of blonde hair. Pale and wan, dressed in a thin grey t-shirt and sweats, he would seem downright ordinary if it weren't for the weapon in his hands. That knowledge makes me trust him even less. Something's always wrong with the ordinary ones.

"Why are you here? What do you want?" he asks. His eyes shift over our group, taking in the guns, pausing on my sword, before clicking back to Rick.

"A chance," the former sheriff replies. He hasn't lowered his rifle yet but his voice is pleading.

"That's asking an awful lot these days."

Rick huffs out a laugh and it's tinged with hysteria. "I know. Believe me, I do." He leaves off the please but it's there all the same.

There are a few beats of silence as the man approaches us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shane flex his grip on his shotgun, finger itching to pull the trigger. Everyone is tense and on edge, waiting for the shoe to drop. The CDC sign above our heads mocks us, taunts us as if to say _you've arrived…possibly only to die. _Fitting. My life's always been one big ironic, cosmic joke.

The man stops a few yards away and his eyes sweep us again. This time, however, he looks to our faces instead of our weapons. He pauses on each of the women, stops completely on the children. I wonder how we must look to him, this ragtag group, all sweaty and panting with fear bleeding out of our pores. I think we must seem downright pathetic, nowhere near as menacing as we should be. We must look like such easy targets.

I'm just getting ready to whirl around, hack my way back to the cars because I'd rather die fighting than begging, when finally, after an eternity, the man says, "You all submit to a blood test. That's the price of admission."

Shock is almost a pliable thing in the air. I blink…and blink again. What did he just say? I couldn't have heard right. It can't be that easy.

Rick doesn't share my disbelief. "We can do that," he pants out almost instantly. The man purses his lips…and then drops his gun. My knees almost give out in surprise.

"You got stuff to bring in, you do it now," he orders. "Once this door closes, it stays closed."

The men rush to obey, sprinting back to the doors we stumbled through not a minute ago. Fear leaps into my throat, the walkers had been so close before; surely they must be right beyond the glass doorways. But the men are back within two blinks, shouldering backpacks and duffels. It's only when I see Daryl jog through the door, hefting my hiking pack no less, that I realize I've been holding my breath. I exhale sharply and dots dance before my eyes.

Once everyone's inside, the man goes over to a keypad mounted along the wall and swipes a card. A green light glows and he says, "Vi, seal the main entrance." A whirling sound kicks on and I turn to see the shutters slowly start to drop. "And kill the power up here." There's a beep, as if in acknowledgement, and the lights begin to dim. Suddenly I hear a shuffling noise and a clang. The geeks have reached the doors. I whirl, expecting to see shattering glass and gnashing teeth but, instead, I only catch a glimpse of threadbare shoes and rotten toes through clear glass, right before the shutters slam down and we're left in eerie silence.

For a minute, everyone just stands there, silent and wide-eyed. No one seems to believe this is happening, not even the man that let us in. I wait to wake up in Daryl's truck, in my tent, in a tree, my long lost bed, but I'm left standing here in this dark, echoing room with a handful of terrified survivors pressed in around me. Someone jostles me and I click my eyes over to find Glenn, his brown eyes shining with the same dazed disbelief that's coursing through my veins. Predictably, Rick is the first one to break the silence as he introduces himself, lowers his gun and sticks out his hand. The other man, the stranger, looks down at the proffered limb but ignores it, glances around nervously and exhales shakily.

"Dr. Edwin Jenner," he responds just as the lights flicker, once, twice, and suddenly go out.

#

Dr. Jenner has a flashlight, a small thing, but it leads us to an elevator with minimal stumbles all the same. As we grope through the dark, the doctor rambles on about power conservation and even apologizes as we bump into things and each other. When we finally reach it, the elevator is cramped with all fourteen of us, plus luggage, stuffed in but we manage. In the end, I get crammed in between Daryl and Glenn with Sophia pressed against my front, my arms around her bony shoulders. I can hardly breath however. Glenn's elbow digs painfully into my, thankfully, uninjured side; Sophia's head is a dull pressure against my sternum; and Daryl's knuckles, wrapped around the barrel of a shotgun, repeatedly brush against my jaw, my cheeks, my lips, with each jostle of the elevator. He tries to shift over but there's simply no room. After the umpteenth time, he catches my eye, something tense but unfathomable in his blue orbs. Something in my head says I should smile at him, tell him it's ok, that I don't mind, but I can't manage it. My lips no longer work, only able to pulse dully in pain every time Daryl catches the split in my lip. There's suddenly a metallic taste in the corner of my mouth and my tongue chases it unbidden. Blood blooms along my taste buds, sharp, tasting like copper pennies against my teeth as I worry the once again bleeding crack in my lower lip. I'm just swiping my tongue across it a second time when the elevator shudders and Daryl's knuckle presses into my mouth. I taste salt and grit and _Daryl _before the hunter wrenches away so hard he bangs into the opposite wall. I stare after him with wide eyes, swallowing, but he won't meet my gaze. Instead, he turns to the man at the head of the elevator.

"Doctors always go around packing heat like that?" I look past Daryl's hand and back at the other man's automatic, now tucked against his shoulder. Sophia presses back closer to me and I curl my arm securely around her collarbone. The doctor half turns to address Daryl's question with a rueful smile.

"There were plenty left lying around," he says and there's a bitter quality to his voice. "I familiarized myself." He glances around the tiny space, takes in how we've _all _"familiarized" ourselves and goes on, "But you lot look harmless enough." His eyes land on Carl, who stands in the center of us, and his smile softens around the corners as he squints in mock suspicion. "Except _you. _I'll have to keep my eye on you."

Carl still seems frightened, there's a smudge of dirt across his cheek, but he manages a grin. It's thin and fragile…but there nonetheless. I try to let it fill me with warmth, with hope. It doesn't work, unsurprisingly, and I'm left staring at the gun cocked on Dr. Jenner's shoulder, half waiting for him to turn it on us.

The elevator stops after what feels like ages and we all file out into a long white hallway. No one's there to greet us but cement walls and stark fluorescent lights. There are no doctors, no other survivors. The silence raises the hair along my arms and I gently nudge Sophia back to her mother as we step forward. Everything in me wants to reach for the katana strapped to my spine but I refrain…for now.

We follow Dr. Jenner passed darkened doorways and empty offices. There are no windows and I'm just realizing that the elevator had gone _down _not up when Carol asks, "Are we underground?"

Jenner stops and glances over his shoulder. "Are you claustrophobic?"

"A little."

"Yeah well…try not to think about it," Jenner replies and then continues on down the hallway. I look up at the ceiling, non-descript white tile, like every public building I've ever been in, even school and shopping center, and think about how many tons of dirt are pressing down on me right now. I think Amy might six feet under but I might be six hundred feet. I might as well be dead and buried.

"Hey kid."

I blink and drop my gaze from the ceiling. Daryl stands a few feet away, dirty and tense, shotgun gripped tight and crossbow slung over an arm, our packs against his spine. His eyes are no less guarded and the blue of them cut like glass.

"Keep up," he grumbles and I find myself walking forward unbidden. I draw abreast of him, our arms brushing, and I think I see a flare of emotion in his eyes before Dr. Jenner's voice echoes down the hallway. Daryl jerks when the words reach us—_Vi, bring up the lights in the big room_—and he takes a step back, shakes his head.

"Come on." Without waiting for me to respond, he follows the voices down the hallway and I limp along his shadow, oh so very tired now.

A few minutes later, when Dr. Jenner opens his arms wide and gestures around the empty auditorium, vast shadows and dead computers, and tells us he's the only one left, the only heart beating for miles and miles and there is no cure, never was, it takes everything in me to not just buckle to the ground and sleep.

Sleep and sleep and sleep until darkness finally takes me.

I'm so exhausted.

Jenner says he's sorry. I don't even hear him. What's an apology but empty words?

_I'm sorry Jim. I'm sorry Amy. I'm sorry Kaleligh and sensei and Mom, Irina, Manny. _

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'msorry._

I've been saying those words for years now and I'll be saying them till my dying day. They really make no difference.

Judging by the shattered, guilty look on Rick's face, I'm guessing he's come to the same realization.

* * *

><p>Honestly, Daryl ain't surprised in the slightest. He never believed there was cure, always thought it was a pipe dream. That there is only <em>one <em>scientist left, though, that's unsettlin. He thought maybe there'd be a small team. Apparently, that was too fuckin optimistic.

Still, there are no walkers; the whole building's secure. There's AC and electricity and only one thin man with a gun. Things could be a whole lot worse, Daryl decides as they're led down another dim hallway. A whole lot worse than a small damn blood sample.

"In here," the doctor leading them says. He gestures them into what looks more like a classroom than a lab or examination room. The others file in obediently but Daryl hangs back in suspicion, glarin into the small room balefully. The doctor said it was only him, one man one gun, but he might've lied. Daryl tightens his grip on his borrowed shotgun and considers refusin.

But then someone bumps into him. It's a light jostle, doesn't even put him off balance. He knows who it is before he looks back and sure enough, the kids _right _behind him, blinkin in a daze, breathin on his neck. Her green eyes are glassy but not like before, not distant and detached. They're tired, bone weary, if Daryl wasn't lookin into her face he'd say they're the eyes of some old crone that's seen too many winters. The kid even moves like she's a century older than she is, everythin slow and careful, like she's made of glass under her paper-thin skin. Daryl looks at the splotches of color high on her cheek, under her eye, along her neck, blue and purple and black and thinks the kid's already long since shattered.

"Daryl?"

Caught, the hunter jerks his gaze away and steps back. "Get inside," he says and it has more bite than he intended. But the kid doesn't seem to notice, doesn't even flinch, and she just slips passed him into the small room. When he hears no commotion, no screams or curses, he follows suit.

The others have sat down in scattered chairs, normal lookin and plain. Mothers have their children pulled close to their sides and sit towards the back, the men formin a line between them and the doctor who is fishin around a desk, gloves on and what looks to be a syringe in hand. Daryl skirts him and goes to stand along the far wall, eyes scannin for threats. He finds a lot of nothin. Seems they really are the only ones here.

"I can take that."

Daryl starts a few minutes later when the quiet statement breaks the silence. He takes his eyes off where Grimes is gettin a needle in the arm and turns to find Audrey reachin for him, fingers slidin along his shoulder. He pulls away harshly, collides with the wall.

"What are you doin?" He tries to glare but is unsuccessful. He can't snap at her like he used to, though he tries.

The kid glances up at him with those tired, tired eyes. Shadowed and fathomless, Daryl remembers how she went to pieces in his truck and has a flash of worry that she might do it again. "My pack," she says instead of cryin. Her hand goes to his shoulder again and touches the thick strap diggin into the skin. It takes him a minute to realize what she's talkin about, her backpack that he'd hauled from the car. "I can take it now. You have enough to carry."

Daryl snorts. No shit. He's got his crap _and _hers, not to mention his crossbow and a heavy ass shotgun. It's an extra fifty pounds he's carrying at _least. _His back is screamin and his knees ache like hell. He shifts his shoulders, curls his finger along the kid's strap…and just tightens it.

"I got it kid. Don't need ya keelin over cuz then I'm gonna have to carry yer ass too." Avertin his eyes, he focuses on the doctor and Walsh, the gleam of a silver needle and the vial of bright red blood between them. Audrey exhales slowly along his neck, so close he can feel the heat of her skin along his arm. He hears Chinaman call her name on the other side of him and her heat leaves. Daryl thinks she's gone to the chink's side but doesn't look.

So, all in all, he's completely thrown off guard when a hand wraps around his shoulder and nudges him forward, totally tossed for a loop when that same hand tugs the pack down his arm so hard it drops to the floor with a _thunk_.

"The hell?!"

Daryl whips around, curses on his tongue, only to see Audrey bend down and heft up her pack, sliding it onto her left shoulder with a barely suppressed wince. Her emerald eyes find his when she's situated and he's surprised to see a spark to them, somethin of the spitfire girl that snarled in his face the day they met, that called him out on his bullshit, that wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I don't need to be coddled or pitied," she says to him. Her tone is not angry but there's a firm edge to it. "T…thank you for helping me…but I can help myself too." She stares him down; he doesn't object. Then the chink is callin her again and her eyes drop from his. This time, she does go, slowly and painstakingly, but she doesn't fall. Daryl gazes after her and ignores the itch in his skin that says _follow, _instead busies himself with the thought of that _spark, _of how even though it was small and faded quickly…it was still there.

The kid was a survivor, a fighter. He'd give her that.

"Dixon! You're up." Walsh comes to stand in front of him, face slightly pale and pinched. He jerks his head at where the doctor is waitin, vial in hand. Daryl scowls at him and pushes off the wall, pushes past Walsh. He stalks up to the doctor and sticks out his arm. He doesn't bother to sit or set anythin down.

The pale, thin man stares up at him with unease but doesn't say a word as he slips the needle under Daryl's skin and takes his blood. As the small vial fills with scarlet liquid, the hunter can't help but think bitterly that this is the most painless way he's ever given blood.

* * *

><p>Glenn shifts uneasily beside me. At first, I try to ignore it. After the third time he bumps my shoulder and nearly sends me careening off balance, I realize it's a futile endeavor.<p>

"Are you alright?" I ask at last. He goes still at my side and turns to me with apologetic eyes. I stare back blankly.

Cringing softly, Glenn rubs at the back of his neck, won't necessarily meet my eyes. I find it surprising he's even near me. After Amy, after Ji—

My muscles lock and bones scream and I ground myself in Glenn's shaky words to keep from shaking apart.

"Yeah I fine, I fine," he mutters quickly. Then, Shane calls for Daryl to step up to the plate and he flinches again. "Ok maybe not fine. I uh…don't really like needles."

I blink and turn to watch Daryl stick his arm out, watch the doctor stick the needle in. Blood fills the glass tube and I can't help but think how little the amount is, just a few drops, almost nothing. My mind flashes with pools of the crimson liquid, rivers and oceans of it. The skin of my hands burn in guilt and it is suddenly hard to breathe.

"It's not that bad," I say through numb lips. "Just a small prick and a few drops. Could be worse."

_Much worse, much worse. You could be dying, dead, Amy. You could be Jim with his blood scalding in my pores. _

Glenn clicks his eyes to me and they are full of guilt; I fear if I stare into those brown orbs too long I will be sucked in and swallowed whole. "Audrey," he starts, hand reaching around to curl around my shoulder. I slide out from under him and walk towards Daryl and Dr. Jenner. In afterthought, I try to shoot my…friend a small smile but it is no more than a pitiful twist of lips. Glenn frowns and looks hurt. I turn away so I don't have to see.

Just as I step up, Daryl steps back. He has a hand clamped on the inside of his elbow and his lips are a thin line. He seems uneasy, stiff, and, by the way he keeps glancing at Dr. Jenner, suspicious. When I shift to take his place, and he slides past me, the smell of blood drifts into my nose. I'm so familiar with the smell by now, grafted into my bones, but for some reason it makes me dizzy and lightheaded. I stumble without meaning to and, suddenly, there's a hand on my elbow and Dr. Jenner is standing right in front of me, pale and unsettled. I open my mouth to tell him thank you, purely out of reflex, when I feel the hand on my elbow tighten and automatically know it's not Dr. Jenner holding me.

Looking over my shoulder, I'm immediately met with hard blue orbs. They look disapproving and a little bit smug, as if to say _I told ya so. _

"A…are you alright? What's wrong?" Dr. Jenner's voice draws me away from Daryl's eyes. The older stranger has his hands out as if to steady me but they shake and when I look into his light brown eyes, they're frightened. It's not until I see him to that little hop and skip over my face, neck and well…rest of my body that I realize he's cataloguing my injuries and drawing his own conclusions.

"I'm not infected." The words come out unbidden and Dr. Jenner looks even more upset, like he's heard that one too many times before. I swallow and my throat is dry. Daryl's hand tightens almost to the point of pain. "I'm not," I repeat. Dr. Jenner eyes flicker over to the gun propped on the table behind him and I rack my brain for some way to explain.

In the end, it's Andrea who speaks up.

"She's not bit," the older woman speaks up behind me. I don't turn to look. "She got the crap beat out of her by this asshole, nearly killed her."

Some of the suspicion bleeds out of Dr. Jenner's expression. "And…and this uh person?" he questions. Daryl's nails bite into my skin and I cringe.

"He's no longer with us," Andrea says and suddenly, Daryl lets go. I crane my neck to see him but he's stalking away, pack and crossbow and gun hefted at odd angles. He goes to the back corner of the room but doesn't look up. My eyes fall and I see three red drops against the stark, white tile. I know if Daryl were close enough I'd see a thin trail of blood, snaking down his forearm.

A cleared throat draws my attention. Dr. Jenner is staring at me but no longer with fear. "Would you uh care to sit down?" he offers, directing me to a chair he had pulled up. I go to refuse but then Jacqui is abruptly at my side, guiding me down. The pity in their gazes makes my stomach roll and I stare resolutely at my lap. Dr. Jenner is decidedly gentle when he takes my arm; the left one, obviously, because Jacqui whispers to him that the right one is broken like I'm not even there. There's a tourniquet and some pressure, a muttered assurance and then a small prick. It's over before I know it and Jacqui's ushering me out of my seat and over into a new one. Glenn shuffles passed me and something in me wants to reach out and comfort him. But the moment is gone too quickly and I'm shoved onto my ass again until Andrea, the last of us, gives her own ruby vial.

And then we find ourselves at an impasse. It will take hours for our blood samples to process. If our blood was the price of admission, I'm sure Dr. Jenner wanted it for reassurance that we weren't going to suddenly take a bite out of him. Which means…I guess we're stuck in here for the time being. I look around the small classroom area we find ourselves in. Carpet and AC; electricity and the promise nothing is going to some up and tear us to shreds. I've had worse.

I'm just about to find my own corner of the room to hunker down in, I'm on fumes now, I just want oblivion, when Jacqui mutters something about us not eating in days. Dr. Jenner blinks and looks surprised, as if food isn't hard to come by. Like we should have been pulling up to McDonald's all this time.

"Do any of you have food allergies?" he asks rather suddenly. The question is random and we all share glances of confusion before muttering negatives. Well, except for Sophia. She apparently has a minor nut allergy.

Dr. Jenner nods, as if to himself. "I can work around that."

My brow furrows. What the hell does that mean?

#

An hour later and I have my answer.

If I were anyone else, anyone that had dreams instead of nightmares, I'd say I was dreaming, sleeping.

If I were anyone else, I would say I've died and gone to heaven.

But I'm not anyone else. I'm Audrey Lara Bennett. And I have no explanation for what's in front of me.

Bones are spread across the table, picked clean and gleaming in the fluorescent light. There are three separate carcasses on three separate platters. I still can't get my mind around it, staring down at my stained hands.

Since the world ended, I've been surviving on meager foods, tough and gamey and wild if it didn't come in a can. To see _this_…it almost sickened me.

I mean why the fuck did the CDC of all places…have roast beef, whole chickens and whole turkeys?! Not to mention the spices and condiments to cook them properly. My stomach gurgles happily, for the first time in months, finally full. It tells me not to question anything, that this is a gift horse and not to go looking for teeth. But I've done that one too many times and gotten bitten in the ass for it. My mind won't let me make that mistake, constantly asking what was the catch, where's the next shoe, when's it going to drop? The questions slam around inside my skull, so loud and grating, and I find myself reaching for the wine to drown it out.

Shane tries to stop me at first. He reaches out as if to intercept me, and our eyes clash, brown on green. That stubborn glint is in his gaze, the _I'm older and a cop and therefore know better so listen to me _glint that I've come to resent. I remember his self-righteousness, god it feels like centuries ago, when he decided I couldn't hunt with Daryl, when I shouldn't go with Glenn into the city. I remember that Shane Walsh is used to being listened to and respected. I remember that…I really no longer give a shit. Keeping his gaze, I wrap my fingers around the neck of the wine bottle, the chicken grease on my hands making my grip slip ever so slightly. Shane purses his lips but doesn't stop me as I pour a glass. He frowns when I take a heavy gulp, the alcohol bitter on my tongue, but doesn't say a word. By the time I'm pouring my second glass, he's resolved himself to look steadfastly away.

Good.

Around me, everyone is in a jovial mood. There's laughter and smiles, rosy cheeks and loud conversation. The small cafeteria is dark beyond the lights above our table and it almost feels as if there's this bubble around us; that nothing else exists. Jacqui says something to T-Dog across the table; he throws back his head and laughs, smacks the table as his body shakes. Beside him, Shane shakes his head but smiles too. The Grimes family looks almost picturesque at the other end of the table, Carl between his parents and Rick and Lori staring adoringly at each other. Sophia and her mother look happy too and completely at ease, the tension that had always resided in the lines of their pale faces now erased. Sitting right next to me, Glenn has tipped over the threshold of tipsy, leaning heavily into my side and talking loudly into my ear. Dale looks fondly at the two of us as he refills our glasses and I quickly avert my eyes, not liking what I had seen in his.

Someone curses quietly, so quietly that in the din of happy voices, I find myself turning towards the sound. Daryl sits off from the rest of us, perched atop the small bar that Dr. Jenner had pulled the liquor from. There's a bottle of what looks to be whiskey at his lips, half finished, and when he drops his arm there's a dark swatch of cloth in the middle of his chest. Looks like he missed his mouth a little. For the first time tonight, I feel my lips almost twitch into a smile.

"There it is."

Tearing my eyes away from Daryl, I turn and see Glenn staring at me with a sloppy grin. "There what is?" I ask, lips dipping into a frown. Glenn's grin dims and he reaches out, fingers brushing the corner of my mouth.

"You were smiling," he said. His brow furrows and he looks upset. "You don't smile anymore."

Something in me stirs, abruptly angry, and words like acid bubble up my throat. But looking at Glenn now, dark eyes wet, pale face morose and drunkenly open…I can't bring myself to do it. He's still my friend, somewhere under all the pressure in my chest.

"I'm just tired," I say in lieu of the other words battering at the back of my teeth. I reach up and grasp Glenn's hand that hand traveled to cup my scratched cheek. Curling my fingers with his, I draw our hands to lie on the table. Glenn still looks sad but is too drunk to argue. He just nods and drops his head to my shoulder, bill of his baseball cap clipping painfully against my jaw.

"'M tired too."

I reach around with my left hand, despite the flare of pain in my ribs, and pat his head awkwardly. He sighs, breath wine sour, and presses his face into my neck. I reach for my glass and chug the remaining dregs, draining Glenn's too when I'm done. My head swims and my face feels too warm. It's not enough though. My hands still burn hotter, the wine still looks too much like blood, and every time I close my eyes all I can see is an alternating slide show of Jim and Amy and Kaleigh, all these bodies, so many accusing eyes.

When no one is looking, I grab the bottle of vodka that lies abandoned, looked over for the sweeter wine. It's clear and tastes like fire going town, burns through my throat and eats a hole in my stomach. Rick looks over when I've downed half the glance and chuckles.

"Wine too much for you huh?" he asks with a grin. His cheeks are red and there's a fine sheen of sweat along his brow. "Water helps take the edge of he says." I almost burst out laughing, settle for smiling lazily, feeling slightly hysterical. He thinks it's _water. _I don't correct him.

"Hey!" Carl's voice cuts through the haze of my vision. He's tugging on his dad's sleeve indignantly, his face twisted into what should be a scowl. He's accomplished a pout. "Why does Audrey get to have some?! I want to try!"

Lori swallows her red mouthful hastily and shakes her head. "Oh no, no, no," she says, waving a finger in her son's face. "You are not having any wine."

"Aww come on! Mooom!"

Everyone laughs raucously and I find the noise grating. Taking another gulp of my "water", I hope to drown the noise out.

Dale stands up and refills everyone's wine. Glenn squints at his empty glass, mumbles that he doesn't remember drinking it, and waves the older man on. "You know," Dale starts and his speech is slightly slurred. "In Italy, children have a little wine with their dinner." He takes Lori's glass and grins at her as he pours. "_And _in France too!"

Lori, more than a little inebriated, reaches out and places her hand on Carl's glass, which suddenly has wine in it. I frown at the sight and try to remember when that happened, fail and end up taking another swig of burning fire.

"Well, when Carl is in Italy or France, he can have some then," Lori says. I want to point out that there probably isn't an Italy any more or a France but my tongue is heavy and sour in my mouth. It rolls around my teeth, a writhing thing, but I can't seem to control it.

Rick laughs and cajoles his wife, charming smile and blue eyes. Everyone shouts encouragement, even Glenn slurs something against my jaw, and Lori finally relents. Carl looks gleeful and snatches his cup up, puts it to his lips and swallows. His face contorts immediately and his tongue flops out.

"Eww!" More laughter, his mother pressing a kiss to his hair. "That tastes nasty!" The young boy shakes his head and reaches for more soda. Shane helps him pour it and ruffles his hair across the table.

"Just stick to soda pop there, bud," he says and his eyes suddenly click to mine. I pause, almost empty glass halfway to my lips and I know _he _doesn't think it's water. I also know he disapproves. I don't care. I down the glass and eye the bottle a few feet away, wondering when no one will be looking next.

Glenn beats me to it, however, grabs the bottle and takes a healthy swig right from the neck. He sputters and chokes, eyes watering and I find myself laughing. Someone quickly joins in and I look up. I know that laugh, deep and short and a little mocking. Daryl meets my eyes from the bar, flushed under the dirt on his cheeks, and points with his bottle of whiskey.

"I was wonderin how red Chinaman's face could get," he snorts. I giggle because Glenn's cherry now, rapidly turning maroon. More laughter joins in, I pat the still gasping boy's back and he falls into my neck again. When I look up, Daryl is staring at me with this peculiar expression. I can't name it, the edges are all too fuzzy, and then there's this ringing noise and Rick is standing up.

"It seems to me we haven't thanked our host properly," he announces. Dr. Jenner looks up in surprise from his separate table. His glass remains mostly untouched, the burgundy liquid rich and full. Despite the glaze to his eyes and the way he's slightly off balance, Rick's voice is surprisingly clear and steady. He makes some kind of speech; I can't track it. Then there's a toast and cheering, Daryl even shouts _Booyah _from his perch and I realize there's only a few swallows left in his bottle. Rick beams and everyone beams with him. I find it odd, that everyone looks to him now, a self-appointed leader. I wonder how Shane feels about this.

"So when are you gonna tell us what the hell happened here, doc?"

The laughter slows, smiles freeze. Shane stares at Dr. Jenner with piercing eyes. "All the other doctors, that were supposed to be figuring out what happened, were are they?"

Rick clears his throat and sets down his glance. People shift in discomfort and unease. I reach for the vodka again. "We're celebrating Shane," Rick says. The easygoing quality of his voice is gone and he sounds almost scolding. "Don't need to do this now."

Shane scoffs and the sound is scornful. Being replaced as leader doesn't seem to sit well with him. "Whoa, wait a second. This is why we're here right? This was your move," he says at Rick. "Supposed to find all the answers. Instead we uh…we found him." He laughs and jerks a thumb at Dr. Jenner who looks vaguely sick. "Found one man. Why? Come on man. _Jim _deserves an answer."

The name, said aloud, is like a knife to the gut. The air is pulled from my lungs and I'm left gasping, vision bursting with flares of color, all _redscarletred. _My throat feels tight, there's something pressing down on my chest, and tears burn my eyes.

"_Thank you."_

"_**Thank you."**_

_"__Please Audie. Don't let them take me."_

Fire pools in my stomach and I think I've finally been torn apart, blood filling me up, internally bleeding. But then I taste the bitter after sting of vodka and I realize I've just taken another gulp. The alcohol pushes the memories away and I going for another drink when Jenner starts talking.

"Well, when things got bad, a lot of people just…_left, _went off to be with their families." His eyes travel around the table and they are deep and brown and sad and I don't like them very much. I stare instead at the pockmarks on his cheeks and try to trace patterns out of them as he continues. "And when things got worse, when the military cordon got overrun, the rest…bolted."

Shane frowns and looks unconvinced. "Every last one?" His tone is very sharp, confrontational. He's always up in people's faces.

Dr. Jenner looks irritated by the question. "No. No, many couldn't face walking out the door. They…opted out. There was a rash of suicides." He grows quiet and looks off to the side and I can't see his sad, sad eyes anymore. "That was a bad time."

Silence follows his story…until Andrea breaks it. I don't look at Andrea either, haven't since we got here. She looks a lot like Amy. Maybe cuz they're sisters. I don't know. It hurts though.

"You didn't leave," she tells Dr. Jenner. She sounds too…sturdy. I try to think if she had anything to drink but can't remember. "Why?"

"I…I just kept working, hoping to do some good."

I snort, I don't mean to, and mutter to myself, "That's stupid. There's nothin left to do."

Glenn goes rigid next to me and his lips skate the skin on my neck. It feels…wet. He groans and levers himself up, fixes Shane with a watery glare. "Dude, you are _such _a buzzkill man," he slurs. Shane almost looks guilty and drops his eyes. Everyone is silent, the good mood gone.

I reach for the vodka, tilt my head back, and let the word narrow to the lava scorching down my throat.

#

The ceiling is white. It's textured, bumpy. I raise my hand above me and imagine feeling the bumps beneath my fingers. My fingers start to tingle and then I can't feel them so I drop my hand and instead let my eyes do the work. There are three water stains and two cracks on the ceiling. I trace them, find shapes and patterns, make them move, until my eyes burn and water. But I can't close them. I'll fall asleep if I close them. I don't want that. Not at all.

Sighing, I lever myself up into a seat position. The room wavers, my stomach dances, and I stare resolutely at my bare feet until it stops. My toenails are naked and bare and I wiggle them, thinking that at least something of my skin is unmarked. But then my bandaged foot catches my eye and I frown as I remember the discoloration of my ankle, black and blue and ugly. My ribs had been no better; my wrist worse. Fresh from the shower, water dripping from my hair, I had stood in front of the mirror and stared at my too thin, broken body with disinterest. My hipbones were too sharp, my skin pale and pallid where it wasn't bruised and cut. I looked like a skeleton. Gross. I turned away from the mirror and got dressed in the main room, redid my bandages and ignored the blood that I could still feel on my hands. I look at them now and smile at their red tinge, flex my fingers and think of red, condemning Rorschach blots across my knuckles. Like Lady Macbeth, I can't get my hands clean. (1)

When the red starts to hurt my eyes and my head and my chest, I look away, try to find something in the room to grab my attention. I can't remember how long ago Jenner led us to the rooms, how long ago people slurred goodnight. I'm restless, though. I don't wanna sit. But the room is small and offers me nothing, a desk and some bookshelves, two water stains and three cracks. Or something like that. I…I don't know what I want to do but I know I can't do it in here. But this is the CDC, high walls and cement and six hundred feet under. It's my refugee camp, my salvation, just a few months and miles and deaths removed. There has to be something to do around here. Pushing off the couch, I stagger to my feet. There's a pulse of pain in my ankle but it's very distant, too far down and too much alcohol in between. I like it. I should have started drinking sooner.

"Drink, drink, drink, drown, drown, drown," I hum to myself.

I don't know why but on my way out I dig through my pack and fish out my journal. Maybe I'll find Carl and Sophia and read to them. Dr. Jenner said somethin bout a rec room. I think…

The doorknob is a little tricky to handle. I have to squint and fight with it. The mental is cold under my skin and my fingers keep slipping, numb and slick, slick, slick with _bloodredblood. _When it finally does open, it catches me off guard. I tumble through the doorway, close my eyes because I don't want to see the ground when it hits me…but I don't hit the ground. I hit something though, warm and soft, moving. A body. I've hit someone. The alarm that should burn through me is delayed and sluggish; the thought _walker _doesn't even compute. Blinking at the warmth I'm leaning against, not moving away like I should, I look up and find Glenn's brown eyes looking right back down at me.

"Whoa! Are you ok?" he asks and his words come out funny.

That's a weird question. I don't know how to answer it. What's ok? I'm alive. Is that ok? And drunk. That's more than ok. For some reason I don't think that's what he's asking for so I settle for, "The doorknob wouldn't let me out." Hmm…my words sound funny too.

Glenn laughs at that. Maybe that was the right answer. He smells clean now, no more sweat or dirt. He's in sweat pants and a t-shirt. He's not wearing a hat. I frown and reach up, run my fingers through his hair. It's soft and slightly wet, not greasy and gritty. I curl my fingers because I like the feel.

"You look weird without a hat," I tell him honestly. I press my hand down on the top of his head, try to hide his hair and imagine it's a hat. It kind of works. "You should always wear a hat. Glenn wears hats."

"All my hats are dirty."

"Glenn wears hats," I say firmly and he nods in acceptance.

"Ok."

The two of us stand there while I try to push all his hair under my hand, pulling it away from his forehead, when he suddenly squints at me. "Wait. Where are you goin?" His eyes drop and he sees my journal, reaches for it clumsily, but I hold it out of reach. For some reason, I don't want him to see it. Something tells me it's a secret but I don't know why.

"I dunno," I say when he pouts at me. "I can't sleep. I was gonna see if Carl and Sophia wanted to read a bed time story."

Glenn makes a half aborted gesture down the hall, yawns around the words, "Carl and Sophia went to bed. I saw them a few minutes ago."

I frown and drop my hand from his hair. It falls back into his eyes. "Oh…well…" I trail off. I don't know what to do now. Maybe I can find my way back to the cafeteria and see if there's any more drinks. But not wine. The wine tastes bitter and I don't like it.

However, before I can move, Glenn slides in close and breathes in my face. "Do you wanna go to the rec room?" he whispers like a secret. His eyes are dull like marbles and there's a weird smile on his face. "There were books in there. You like books."

I do like books. But I like drinks too. Can I have both? Both sounds good. But I want drinks first. Pursing my lips, I look longingly down the hallway where the cafeteria was and shift to go but Glenn grabs my wrist suddenly and pain flashes white behind my eyes.

"OW!"

Crying out, I shove Glenn away and I collide with the wall behind me. Tears sprint to my eyes and my stomach roils, the alcohol threatening to come back up as my wrist screams in agony. The pain's too close, the break too bad. It _hurts._

"Au…audrey?! Oh god. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean…I just wanted to show you…I'm sorry!"

Glenn starts towards me but I slide away along the wall. He takes another step forward, I slide another foot back, gritting my teeth at the pain. He stops and stares at me and his eyes are wet too, his lip trembling. He looks miserable. But why? His wrist isn't broken.

"I'm sorry Dree," he sniffs and Amy's nickname hurts even worse than my wrist. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry…you don't like me anymore."

That gets my attention, draws me away from the pain. Still cradling my wrist to my chest, I tilt my head at the young man that stands in front of me hanging his. "What…what do you mean I don't like you? You're my friend. I like you."

Most of the time anyway. When he's not being suffocating. When's he's not asking a lot of questions. But I don't say that. Something tells me I shouldn't say that.

Glenn snaps his head up and he looks happy now, amazed, his eyes bright and gleaming now. "You do?" he whispers like he can't believe it. I nod to confirm and he grins from ear to ear. It's a little lopsided and I can tell how chapped his lips are because he's getting closer and his breath still smells like wine even though he showered but he tastes like vodka and…

Oh.

_Oh. _

I freeze in shock as Glenn's lips press lightly against mine. My brain stutters to a halt and I can't move. Glenn sighs and leans in closer, his mouth firmer; his hands cradle the back of my skull and he's kissing me. Glenn is kissing me. I'm kissing Glenn.

"_Glenn is cool and all, and kinda cute in a dorky way, but I think he's like…best friend material. I don't think I'd ever date him. Would you?"_

Amy's voice filters through my head and this time it doesn't hurt. It's just confusing. Because I don't like Glenn. I mean I like Glenn but I don't…_like _Glenn. I told Amy that. At least I think I did. But Glenn's kissing me. Does this mean Glenn likes me? What do I do? I…my head hurts. I don't know what to do and Glenn is backing me up against a wall and he's panting into my mouth and that's his _tongue _and I **can't. **

Clamping my lips shut, I twist my head to the side and Glenn's mouth lands against my jaw. He breathes there for a moment, moist and hot, before I wiggle my left hand between us and push against his chest.

"Stop," I try to say but it comes out no more than a harsh rasp. "Please…stop."

Glenn does. He stops…and he pulls away. My eyes fall to his lips and they are red and gleam wetly. My head pounds and I drag my eyes up to meet his. I wish I didn't.

They are dark, so dark, brown bleeding into black. They are endless, bottomless, and so very, very _sad. _His expression is contorted, shaking lips pressed tightly together, brow furrowed and lined. Every inch of him screams _**hurt **_and I'm…lost.

Suddenly, Glenn stumbles back, careens into the other wall. I reach after him unbidden but he's shaking his head. My hand falls listlessly to my side. Glenn laughs and it's bitter. He won't meet my eyes. "Had to try right?" he says. I'm confused and thrown for a loop, I want to ask him what he means but he cuts me off.

"Good night Audrey. I'm…sorry." With that, he turns and staggers off down the hall, hand pressed to the wall to keep his balance. He goes a handful of doors down and then slips into a room on the right. He doesn't look back; he doesn't say another word. The click of the lock echoes through the hallway and I'm alone with my head pounding and my wrist pulsing and my mouth tasting bitter.

I stare after Glenn for I don't know how long, wondering what just happened, trying to get my head on right. But nothing makes sense and I feel sick. Blindingly stooping down, I pick up my journal from where it had fallen to the floor. The leather creaks in my hand and I hug it to my chest, closing my eyes and letting my feet take me to the only place I can think of.

* * *

><p>There were no beds, the doctor had said. They'd have to make do. Like the offices were just bare cement and wooden chairs. Tch. Daryl stares at "his" office and takes the final swig off his bottle of Jim Beam. The room's bigger than half his old house, with a huge leather looking couch and throw pillows. Daryl's slept on worse.<p>

He moves into the room slightly staggerin; drops his things by the door and shuts it after him, throws the lock. He's tired as fuck and more drunk than he should be. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Daryl knows it was stupid to drink this much, that he should be on his guard, always, cuz he has no one else to watch his back now. But he couldn't help it. The shit was there and there were no walkers, couldn't be, everything shut up and out. So he took a bottle and chugged it. His head swims and he stumbles over to the in suite bathroom, empty bottle of bourbon fallin from his lax fingers. It rolls across the carpet and under the big desk but Daryl ignores it and throws open the bathroom door.

Chrome and tile, glass shower and big mirrors. City folk. Spoiled as fuck.

Daryl collapses on the toilet and tugs at the laces of his boots. He kicks them to the side and starts on the buckle of his belt when something occurs to him and he walks out into the main room again. He snags his crossbow from where it was propped next to the door. He may be drunk but he ain't gonna be caught without protection. Draggin the crossbow into the bathroom, he leaves the door ajar and strips out of his grimy shirt and stiff, dirty jeans. He'll wash them after he washes himself.

The water's _hot _when he steps in and he curses before gettin the temperature right. He tilts his face into the spray and just stands there, lets the dirt run off him in brown streams. Brain hazy and blood warm, he scrubs all the crap of the last few days off him. He strips away the quarry dirt; he strips away the pyre's soot; he strips away the blood, his own and others, and the sweat and his brother and the kid's tears he can still feel cloggin his pores. He lets it all wash off him and circle the drain between his feet and doesn't give them a second thought. He lets his mind go blank cuz he's full and drunk and tired and he just doesn't _care _bout shit anymore. It's a warm shower, his first and months, and he's gonna take it for what it was worth.

And then he's gonna sleep on that fuckin couch and not give two shits for the others and they can just let him be. He'll sleep for days and eat and drink and sleep some fuckin more.

As if the universe is flippin him off, just as he's finished think that, someone knocks on his door. Daryl freezes, thinks maybe he heard wrong, prays he did, but the sound repeats, quiet and persistent. Goddamn it. ]He snarls and turns off the water, pissed even if it had started to grow cold.

As he searches for a towel, Daryl thinks that if it's Walsh or Grimes he's gonna give them a warnin and slam the door in their faces. First the door, and if they didn't leave, his fist.

The knockin continues.

"I'm comin," he barks and yanks on a pair of jeans over his still wet legs.

Stalkin over to the door, he throws it open ready to spit in Walsh's face…only to glare over the top of Audrey's head. He blinks and the insults wither and die on his tongue. The kid stares up at him, green eyes big and bright and…begging. Surprises filters through his veins, overlappin the alcohol.

"O…oh. You were showering," she says and her eyes fall to his bare chest. His cheeks burn and he crosses his arms in front of him.

"What d'ya want?" It's the middle of the goddamn night. The kid should be fuckin sleepin, passed out on her own couch.

But she's not. She's standin six inches from him and frownin, the bruises on her face twistin in the dim light of the hallway. He wouldn't know or anythin but he thinks she looks upset. "What happened here?" she asks. Her hand suddenly reaches out and stops just a hair's breath from his ribs. He can feel the heat from her fingers and it takes him a minute too long to realize she's talkin bout the bruises the vatos left behind. He squirms and scowls.

"Nothin," he growls, droppin his arms to cover the shadowed bootprints. He's not thinkin bout Atlanta or those vatos or…or nothin. "Look kid what are ya—"

"I can't sleep," she blurts out. He hadn't noticed before but her speech is slurred. He narrows his eyes and takes in the glaze of her own, the way she sways on her feet. She's drunk, higher than a Georgia pine. He tries not to snort.

"And? What's that got to do with me?"

The kid bites her lip and then flinches when it irritates the split. Her hair is damp and the longer ends stick to her neck, her jaw line. She looks like a wet puppy and Daryl tries to keep up his scowl. "Everyone else is asleep. Can…can I come in?"

Daryl balks and almost chokes on nothin. Can she _what_? What the hell is she askin? He stares at her, small and thin and bruised in his doorway, and thinks maybe he's dreamin. Except he wouldn't dream of this. He wouldn't. Cuz that's…stupid.

Fuck his head is pulsin.

He thinks bout turnin her away, tellin her to get to bed and sleep it off, but then she just kinda stares at him and she looks pathetic and he can't be an ass, doesn't have the energy for it. Especially when she breathes out, "_Please?" _Too tired to argue, and rememberin his debt, Daryl opens the door and steps back. She slips inside and he thinks just ten minutes and then he'll kick her out.

The kid's limpin towards the desk at the back of the room when he turns around. Watchin her gait, his eyes go to her ankle to see new bandages…and a lot more bruises and scrapes than he realized. She's wearin sleepin shorts that hit her mid thigh and what looks to be a guy's grey tank top so her arms and legs are bare. Daryl abruptly thinks Chinaman when he sees the shirt, feels hot under his skin, but then he reads the letterin on the back.

_**LINARDOS**_

_**Dalton High Track Team**_

Dalton…she's from Dalton. He remembers her shoutin that the day they met, blood trailin down her cheek, her green eyes full of tears. And the track team…he can see that shit. The way the kid ran from him though he woulda guessed cross-country. But that's a guy's shirt...and the kid's last name was _Bennett. _Daryl frowns at the bold crimson letterin in a stupor. Then his drunken mind whispers that "Linardos" was her _boyfriend _and Daryl is glad that the kid's turnin round and talkin now cuz he almost punched himself.

"Seems you finished it," she says and waves the empty bottle of Jim Beam that had been under the desk at him. She almost pouts when she asks if has anymore. He's bout to say no, cuz honestly he hadn't thought to grab more from the cafeteria, but then he suddenly remembers somethin and, cuz he wants some more too now, he goes over to his duffle and rifles through it. A few minutes pass, more than they should but Daryl can't get his fingers and his goddamn brain to work together, and he finally fishes out the bottle of Jack Daniels he found on his last hunt. The one he meant to share with…

"Here," he grunts. He twists the cap off and takes a gulp before he hands it to the kid. It burns on the way down and he relishes in it. Audrey ambles up to his side and takes the bottle with a small smile, puts the bottle to her lip and swallows. This close, she smells of soap, clean skin, and a little bit of alcohol. Her face pinches and she shakes her head at the potency. Daryl laughs and takes the bottle back.

"Can't hold yer liquor kid?" he mocks. She frowns at him and her eyes are green as glass.

"Can too. Just…not used to it." To prove her point she lunges out to grab the bottle, misses, and pitches forward. Her slight body collides with his chest and he stumbles, off balance with liquor and surprise. They titter for a moment and then the momentum knocks them back unto the couch. Audrey groans against his collarbone, breath hot, and rolls off a split second later. Daryl blinks into thin air, frozen with shock, shovin away the thought of her thin bones pressed hard against his.

"Ow," the kid breathes next to him. He starts at the exclamation and goes to stand up but she beats him to it. Fumblin and jerky, the kid clambers to her feet only for her knees to buckle halfway up. She ends up slidin to the ground, back against the sofa, legs splayed out in front of her. "Ow," she says again and this time it's a whine. Her head flops back, her neck, with Merle's dark fingerprints, bared to him, and her eyes lazily settle on his face before slippin out of focus.

"I fell," she states sadly and Daryl just stares at the sprawled figure at his feet. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do, the kid's drunk and so is he and maybe they're friends but he ain't gotta say anythin bout it. He glances at the bottle still in his hand, a splash of whiskey trailin down his wrist from the fall, and takes a swig. It's smoother goin down now and Daryl slouches as warmth pools in his gut.

On the floor, Audrey wiggles around, wincin at aggravated bruises. She stays quiet for Daryl doesn't know how long, mutterin under her breath as he puts a dent in the Jack.

"Can I have some more?" Daryl looks down and the kid's neck is craned back again, her hand reachin for him. He's bout to tell her no, she's on her fuckin ass and had enough, but she ain't _his _kid and he ain't Walsh. He hands over the bottle silently and she fumbles it to her mouth. As she drinks, she stares at him, eyes hazy and unfocused. After her third swallow, she cradles the bottle to her chest and gestures sloppily at him with her chin.

"Who's Lilah?" she slurs. Daryl frowns at her and then goes rigid, a spot high on his left pec burnin hot. He tries to ignore her but she's persistent, puts the Jack down and points at his chest. "You…your tattoo. It…it says Lilah right?" She squints and leans forward, tries to read it better, but Daryl jerks to his feet and staggers to his duffel. His clothes are all dirty, caked in dirt and dried sweat, they fuckin _reek,_ but he yanks on a shirt and buttons it up. His fingers fumble and the buttons come out uneven but he ends up covered. He looks back at the couch and the kid's starin at him. He scowls at her and, for the first time in a long time, the expression is hateful.

"None ya damn business," he snaps at her. Cuz it's fuckin not. She needs to shut up, she has no idea and—

"Was it your wife? O…or girlfriend?" Daryl freezes, blood burnin hot and cold. The kid is starin at him with wide eyes, one leg tucked under her, bottle between her thighs. There's this curious, earnest light in her drunken expression but Daryl feels anger sear hot through his veins. He bares his teeth and jerks his head at the door.

"Leave," he grunts. Audrey blinks and her mouth falls open.

"W…what? N…no wait. I didn't…I'm sorr—"

"Get the fuck out!" Daryl's drunk and he's tired and he's pissed. He doesn't realize he's movin till the kid scrambles to her feet and backs away. It's the fear in her eyes that finally stops him, bright and sharp and cuttin. He grinds to a halt and they are standin on opposite ends of the couch. Audrey pants, eyes big and frightened and the alcohol burns in Daryl's gut. He feels sick and disgusted cuz he knows she's seein Merle, seein the poison they share in blood, and waitin for the next blow.

* * *

><p>Daryl's angry. I didn't mean to piss him off. I was just curious. The tattoo is large and black, the name prettily written with flairs off the ends. (2) I like it and I just wanted to know. I didn't even mean to say it; the words just came out. Fuck. <em>Fuck. <em>My head swims and my heart hammers painfully beneath my ribs. Daryl stands a few feet away, breathing harshly, bottle clenched in his fist. His blue eyes are wild and hard and my head keeps thinking _MerleMerlehe'sgoingtohurtyou. _But I don't really think that. Daryl's not like Merle. I know that. Daryl saved me and he…he fed us, the squirrels and the deer, and the stitches he did and then…Jim…he didn't…I…

"I'm sorry," I gasp, head spinning, Jim's face and blood splashing against the back of my eyes. "Sorry."

I try to go around him, get out, out the door and go somewhere…else but my foot catches on the bottle of Jack on the floor, it tips over, and I fall to my knees. No one catches me this time and the impact jars my bones, makes every bruise burst with pain.

The silence that follows rings in my ears. Daryl doesn't move, doesn't say a word, and I stare at the whiskey stain in the carpet, tracing the flashes of color that come with each pulse of pain. I don't know how long I kneel there but all of the sudden Daryl is standing in front of me, picking up the Jack, nearly gone now. I don't mean to but I flinch away. Daryl steps back.

More silence. I don't know where Daryl is, out of my line of sight. I think maybe he left but I don't want to look up because if he did…I'm alone. And that means he hates me. I don't want him to hate me; I never did. I've always just wanted to be his friend but he never wanted it and now he hates me cuz I killed his brother like I killed Jim and Amy and Kaleigh and I asked him about his tattoo and I shouldn't have because maybe his wife or girlfriend Lilah is dead and I shouldn't have asked and—

"My ma."

I start at the quiet slur and snap my head up. Daryl is on the other side of the room, near the door, staring at his bo—bare feet. His feet are bare. I tilt my head at the sight, used to his boots, but then I remembered he said something. His ma…his mother? A piece of hair hangs in my eyes and I tuck it behind my ear.

"Y…your mom?" My gaze goes to his chest again but he has a shirt on. I frown at it, thinking I can make it go away, but the green, plaid material doesn't move.

Daryl scowls at my question. He still looks pissed but his eyes aren't so hard. They remind me rivers and lakes and an ocean I've never seen. He takes a drink from the remaining Jack and nods curtly. Oh. Okay then.

"My mom's name was Lisette," I tell him abruptly. His eyes finally click to mine and they're confused. I'm confused too. Why did I tell him that? I'm not supposed to talk about that though I can't remember why.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. "Lisette and Lilah," I giggle. "LLLLLisette and LLLLLilah. They both start with L!" For some reason, this is really funny to me and I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop the giggles from spilling out. It doesn't help and I collapse sideways, leaning on the couch still laughing.

"Uh kid?"

I loll my head back on the sofa cushions and look up at Daryl, mouth trembling with a smile. The older man is staring at me like I have two heads and I reach over to see if something is growing out of my shoulder because my _one _head hurts already and I don't want double the headache. My fingers brush something hard and warm and I start in surprise—do I really have a second head?!—but when I turn my head all I see is the black spine of my journal inches away from my face, resting on the couch cushions. I frown at the sight, wondering how that got there, when I remember something.

"Oh! Oh!" I scramble for the book and pull it into my lap. The pages flutter open and something falls out. I pick it up gingerly and grin at the item in my hands. "Look," I call to Daryl. "See?" I hold my hand out and he stares at it for a while, not moving. My smile slips and I drop my hand, stare down into my lap.

Mom smiles up at me, frozen and pretty. I don't remember where the picture was taken but I know it was an ambush deal. Mom's blue eyes are surprised though her smile is easy, and the angle is off balance. I trace her dark red hair with the tip of my finger and suddenly feel sad. "This is my mom," I say quietly. The floor creaks and Daryl's bare feet peek into my peripherals. "Her name was Lisette." Now that he's closer, I turn the picture towards him again. He stands over me and looks down at it. His blue eyes—blue, blue, they look like Mom's—click to mine after they take in the image.

"Ya said that." I frown. Did I? I can't remember. Daryl hesitates for a second but then sits back down on the couch. As far away from me as he can but…he's not yelling anymore. That's good right?

Hoping it is, I slip the picture back into my journal but a flash of color catches my attention. I follow it and find myself staring at brightly colored in, bright red and dark blue. The words swim uneasily before my eyes but they jar a memory. Biting my lip, I reach over carefully and nudge Daryl's jean clad leg. He jerks but doesn't move away.

"What?"

I try to turn to show him but my ribs scream in protest. Wincing at the pain, I lift the book a little instead so he can see over my shoulder. "Our bet," I remind him. "Remember? I…I bet you something. Something about poems…oh! I bet I could find a poem you liked!" I look behind me and smile at him, memories of blue lakes and blue eyes and nice words. "Did you forget?"

Daryl purses his lips and doesn't respond for a moment. Then he snorts. "Not that old kid," he grumbles. "Just thought ya gave up already."

"Never! I'm still going to win. Here. I'll show you!"

* * *

><p>Daryl watches as the kid shifts so her shoulder is pressed into the couch and she's half facing him. She drops her chin but he can see her brow his furrowed and her tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth. She's concentratin real hard and Daryl wants to roll his eyes. But he doesn't. He humors the kid cuz...cuz she looked like she was gonna cry, starin at her Ma's picture.<p>

Speakin of that, he doesn't know how to feel bout her just droppin bits of info on him like she did, these pieces of her past, piece of herself. It confuses him, makes his head ache, so he chooses to ignore it, focusin instead on the kid's voice as she starts to talk.

"I…I like this one. It's by Robert Frost." She clears her throat and brings the book closer to her face. Daryl smirks when he realizes she can't get the words to fully focus. But then she starts to recite.

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice. (_3)

Her speech is still a little slurred but her voice is quiet and firm, just like every other time she's read. He still doesn't understand how she likes these words so much but…maybe…he likes that she still likes them; that she's still the stubborn ass kid that he dragged back to the quarry. He'd take that stubborn, mouthy her any day. Better than that detached robot from the quarry, with her friend's blood smeared across her cheek. Better than the weepy girl in his truck.

But he can't say that, not when she's lookin at him with those green eyes. So, he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Tch. Wasn't that asshole wrong? Never thought it'd be walkers huh?"

The kid laughs and it's light, airy. She's been laughin all night and Daryl squirms at how it raises the hair along his arms. "I don't think F…Frost was that visionary," she hiccups, flippin through pages again. Then she shakes her head and sticks her tongue out at him, like she's five fuckin years old. "You're…you're difficult Dixon but I'm still gonna win this! I—"

She abruptly stops mid-sentence. Her mouth works slowly over some words, though no noise comes out, and she exhales quietly. Daryl frowns at her, unnerved by the silence. His fingers curl along the neck of his bottle of Jack and he thinks about finishin it off but the kid suddenly snorts and laughs. This time, however, the sound is dry and sour.

"Somethin funny?"

Audrey shakes her head. "No," she says and her voice sounds almost sober. "Not really. Just somethin caught my eye." This time, she doesn't even warn him, just starts readin.

_GOD says to me with a kind_

_of smile, "Hey how would you like_

_to be God awhile And steer the world?"_

_"Okay," says I, "I'll give it a try._

_Where do I set?_

_How much do I get?_

_What time is lunch?_

_When can I quit?"_

_"Gimme back that wheel," says GOD._

_"I don't think you're quite ready YET." (4)_

Daryl doesn't have a response but the kid apparently doesn't need one. "We never really knew how to steer," she says oddly. "But I don't think God did either." She traces her fingers across the words and then looks up. Her smile and eyes are off; she looks more sad now than drunk.

"That not speak to ya Dixon?" she asks abuptly.

He rolls his eyes and goes for the Jack but changes his mind at the last second. He offers it to her instead and she takes it without question. "Well I'll get there," she says before gulpin down the last swallow. "Eventually." All of the sudden, she drops the empty bottle to the side and palms her brow. "Ugh. My head's killin me." Daryl wants to point out that she's had half a bottle of vodka, probably a bottle of wine, and some Daniel's; he's surprised she's even conscious. But he doesn't. Mostly because the kid's groanin low in her throat and slumpin to the side.

"Hey! Hey kid!" Daryl reaches out but stops short from touchin her shoulder, thinkin back to how she flinched away from him, how she probably saw his brother. His eyes are drawn to the black splotches along her neck and his head pounds steadily. Audrey, oblivious to his inner turmoil, presses her face into the carpet and moans, mumbled gibberish leaking out of her lips. Daryl gnashes his teeth, wonders what do to, wonders if the kid's gonna be sick or cry or what.

She ends up doin none of those things. Instead, after a few tense minutes, her body goes lax and she subsides fully into the carpet, sprawled out and loose. Daryl stares down at her, feels a second's alarm, but then he realizes she's fallen asleep.

On his floor. In his room.

Shit.

He rubs a hand across his mouth, bites the skin around his thumbnail. He can't wake her up; she's long gone, passed out. And he's not bout to fuckin carry her back to wherever she came from. He was her…friend. Not her goddamn servant.

So the only thing left was…for her to sleep here. Daryl growls under his breath and eases to his feet. He's careful not to step on her fucked up ankle; he doesn't need her screamin and Walsh burstin in here. The asshole might just shoot him. "Cause me nothin but trouble kid," he grumbles under his breath but, unlike the last time, he doesn't say she isn't worth it and neither time did he actually mean it.

Daryl staggers over to the light switch and, after grabbin a quilt from his duffel, he flips it down. The room descends into darkness; light from the hall leaks in from under the door and there's a small air freshener, probably long since used, that glows dimly along the far wall. It's enough for the hunter to pick his way across the floor and tumble back onto the couch, enough so that he doesn't even jar the comatose kid. She sleeps on undisturbed and Daryl finally shuts his eyes, hopin his sluggish mind will quickly drift off to sleep.

No such fuckin luck. Minutes pass and Daryl still lies wide-awake. The couch is fine, it's a lot damn softer than his cot; hell, it's softer than his bed that he had before his house burned. It's quiet too and Daryl's drunk, doesn't feel nearly as tense as he had sleepin in a tent, one eye always on the lookout for geeks. But he can't goddamn sleep! He stares at the shadows above his head and listens to the kid breathin on the floor and...and...

Sonva bitch.

Daryl clenches his eyes shut and tries to shove away the thought dancin at the back of his mind, tries to ignore it and stamp it out but it wont leave him alone. He counts to 10, counts to fuckin 100. Doesnt help. In fact, it gets worse, the thought causin pressure in his head and it travels to his chest and...there's nothin goddamn for it.

Snarlin to himself, Daryl sits up and slides off the very end of the couch. He wobbles unsteadily on his feet for a moment before he turns around and stares at the floor.

In the dark, the kid's nothin but a vague shape. Her hair is a darker stain around her head but the rest of her is just shadow and nothin. Daryl stands there for a minute, contemplates layin back down, knows it will do no damn good, and just moves from the gut. He's slow though, careful. His fingers fumble in the dark but are soft when he finds the curve of Audrey's knee, the slope of her hip. His face burns but he ignores it, kneels to the ground and pushes his hands farther. The kid mumbles in her sleep; she doesn't wake. Daryl takes a deep breath, ignores the warm, bare skin he's touchin, and hefts the kid into his arms.

She's light, bones hollow like a bird's. Given the way her skin looks so thin sometimes, so fragile, he aint surprised. Even drunk, as he rises to his feet, her weight doesn't make him stumble. Daryl feels a momentary wave of guilt, unbidden and stupid, because the kid's obviously malnourished and he had been the one to hunt and-

"Daryl?"

The sleepy murmur of his name has him freezin, snappin his head down to look at the kid's face even if he can't make out her features.

"Go back to sleep kid," he says quickly, maybe a little too gruffly, cheeks hot.

Audrey sighs against the ridge of his collarbone and presses her face into his neck. She mutters somethin but it's to garbled to understand and Daryl moves quickly to drop her on the couch before she can wake up again.

The second she's situated and Daryl is sure she aint bout to tumble to the floor, he goes to step away. But the kid—and he doesn't how she does it, in the dark, drunk off her ass, and half asleep—manages to catch the belt loop of his jeans and holds fast. Daryl blinks down in the darkness, thinks she just clung to the nearest thing in her sleep, but then she starts to talk again.

"Thank you," she mumbles, her eyes still closed. Daryl skin suddenly feels too tight and tries to untangle her fingers from his jeans.

"'S nothing, kid. Sleep."

But she's relentless, won't quit, and grips tight to his fingers instead. "For Jim," she continues and Daryl's confused. "Thanks for n't hatin me...cuz I killed him." Her words sound so heartbroken even though she's not even fully awake and Daryl doesn't know what to say. But the kid's used up all her energy apparently because her hand goes suddenly lax in his and her breathin deepens. Daryl gnaws on the corner of his lip and shifts so Audrey's hand drapes across her ribs, next to her right, bandaged one. She sighs and Daryl finally steps away. She doesn't stop him, lost to sleep, and he quietly lies down on the floor a few feet from the couch.

Only to get right back up again and toss his worn, blue quit across her. Cuz he's hot anyways and doesn't wanna walk all the way back to his duffle to put it away.

When Daryl finally situates himself on the ground, nearly parallel to the couch, he stares up at the ceilin and flexes his fingers. They sting with warmth and muscle memory and Daryl frowns as he rubs the calluses along his palms. Pickin the kid up, he thought he had felt somethin along the backs of her thighs, pressin against his arm through the material at the back of her shirt. He thought he felt...something rough, ropy, somethin like ridges. His mind is just startin to name them, word dancin at the fringes of his thoughts, but sleep finally catches up to him and he starts to drift.

The second before he falls completely into oblivion, however, he thinks he hears the kid whisper, "I'm sorry about Merle." But he can't be sure and he falls into darkness.

* * *

><p><em>My eyelids burn red and I'm surrounded my warmth. Someone hums a familiar tune and I chase the words I can no longer remember. I feel as if I've forgotten something but it's no more than the ghost of a memory. It can't be important. I feel safe and happy and good. Nothing I have forgotten can be so important.<em>

"_Sissy? Sissy, wake up!" _

_Someone's calling me. Sissy? There's only one person who calls me that. I struggle to the surface, eyes as heavy as lead. From nowhere, a sense of urgency fills me, tells me I have to open my eyes nownownow. I feel so heavy, so tired, but I fight it. With everything I have, I fight and fight and fight until my eyes crack open and light floods my vision. _

_I blink against the stark brightness, once, twice. For a moment, I think I've been blinded; but then the light starts to fade and my vision clears slowly but surely. _

_Blue eyes sparkle with mischief and a disheveled blonde halo is shot through with morning light. A giggle reaches my ears and then there's a bright, white smile to go with it. Irina reaches down and pats my cheek, her skin soft and warm. "Good morning sleepy head," she says. I stare up at her and my chest feels suddenly tight. It hurts, like my heart is being squeezed in a fist. I want to tell Rina to get off me but I realize she's kneeling by my side, not across my chest. What is this pain?_

"_Hey! Mama said to wake Audie up nicely. Don't poke her in the face!"_

_I turn my head at the upset exclamation and my ribs constrict tighter around my lungs. Manny tilts his head at me, his thick brown hair sticking up in odd directions. His chocolate eyes look worried. "Audie? Audie, are you okay?"_

_Okay? Am I okay? Something tells me I shouldn't be; something tells me that I'm not. But every time I try to remember why, my head hurts and there's this red flash. It tells me __**stop, don't look. **__Afraid, I turn away and look back at my little brother. My chest hurts so much and I feel like I'm about to cry. Unbidden, my hand goes out and touches Manny's head, slides along his cheek. _

"_I'm fine," I croak out and it tastes like I lie though I don't know the reason. "Just tired Manny."_

_Irina bounces next to my hip and I turn to see her grinning at me. Her freckles stand out against her pale skin and there's a golden curl hanging between her blue, blue eyes. "You can't be sleepy syestra," she giggles. (5) "You slept forever! Breakfast is ready! Come eat with us!"_

_Breakfast? But…I just ate dinner. Laughter echoes across my mind and the bitter taste of alcohol before the flash of red blinds me. __**Stop. Don't look. **_

_I put my hand to my forehead and rub. I…I must be wrong. It's morning. Time for breakfast. "Ok Rina. I'm up, I'm up!" Grabbing my little sister, I tuck her to my side and tickle her. She explodes into giggles and I swing my feet off the bed. Manny retreats to the door but returns with my slippers, ugly purple things with googly eyes; a present from Mathias. _

_I smile at him. "Thanks Manny." He nods, Irina giggles in my ear, and I go to put them on. _

_Only to freeze half way because my feet and legs are bare, white and unblemished. That's not right. They…my ankle is sprained, the skin the same eggplant color as the slippers on the ground. And my legs…they're scratched and cut up. But why? My head pounds, flashes of red, and I let go of Irina to cradle my head. _

"_Sissy? What's wrong? Sissy!"_

"_Audie que pasa?! Audie! M…mama!"_

_Mama…mom. He's calling Mom. The pounding in my temples gets worse, all I can see is red. He's calling for Mom…but he can't. He can't call Mom because…because Mom is…_

"_Now what is all of this commotion?"_

_Everything stops, even my heart, my lungs. Irina wiggles against my side and is gone; I hear Manny shuffle away too. My eyes are clenched shut but slowly drift open and I'm left staring at my Mom. Her dark red hair is piled high atop her head; she's in pajamas and there's a smear of pancake batter across her cheek. She stands with her hands on her hips and Irina and Manny cling to her legs. She's frowning at me. _

"_Audrey. Why are you scaring your brother and sister?"_

_Words don't come to me; all I can do is gape. My chest is suddenly so tight I can't even draw a single breath. My head feels like it might split open. And all the while my eyes flash with red. __**Stop. Don't look. Stop. Don't look. **_

"_Mom," I manage to rasp out. Tears come to my eyes and I don't know why. My Mom's angry expression withers and she suddenly looks concerned. _

"_Sweetie? What's wrong?" she asks. She comes over and sits next to me on my bed, Irina and Manny clambering up too. "Did you have a bad dream?"_

_A dream? My head aches. I can't remember. There's the sensation of pain and I think I hear screams. All I can see is red and I turn away from it. __**Stop. Don't look. **_

"_Y…yes," I say. "I…I must have had a bad dream."_

_My Mom frowns and gently pulls me into her arms. She smells like bacon grease and pancakes, and under that is the scent of her lilac shampoo. I cling to her and breathe it all in. "A bad dream," I whisper into her hair. "It was all just a bad dream."_

"_It's ok honey. It's over now. You're here; you're safe." She pets my hair, fingers combing through the long strands. Manny crowds against my spine and Irina wiggles into my lap. It's warm and safe and good. I cling to all of them and just breathe, trying my best to ignore the ache in my chest that makes me want to cry. _

_A few minutes later we detangle. My Mom's bright blue eyes stare into mine and my heart pulses with pain because I know that color…from somewhere; from a dream. _

_Blue eyes and blue lakes, a stark blue sky._

_**Kid!**_

_The word screams through my skull and I palm my forehead, seeing only red. No…I can't look. It was all just a dream, a very bad dream. I don't want to go back there. I just won't look. _

"_Sissy?" I open my eyes and Irina stares at me, looking scared. "Sissy, why are you crying?"_

_I shake away my thoughts and the words and the images. I don't look. Instead, I smile at my sister, smooth down one of her wayward curls and kiss her forehead softly. "It's nothing Rina," I tell her. "Sissy is just being silly. Why don't you and Manny go to the kitchen and sit down? I'm going to brush my teeth and I'll be right there."_

_Like a slate wiped clean, Irina smiles and squirms off my lap. Manny slips to the ground too and I press a kiss to his hair. "Go on. I'm fine." My two younger siblings smile and run out the door, the sound of their feet on the hardwood hallway floor and their laughter drifting back towards me. _

"_They're growing up so fast." I turn to see my mom wistfully staring at the door. "Soon enough, they'll be leaving for college just you." She looks at me and smiles but I'm not listening. College…something about college. _

_**"Before all this crap I was going to be an English major. You think I'd waste all my time and money on something **__**pointless?"**_

_I said that. I remember. But to whom? And why? _

"_Audrey hurry and get washed up or your pancakes are going to get cold." My Mom pinches my nose and stands. I blink up at her and try to remember what I had been thinking about…but it all slips away. _

"_Pancakes…right sorry. I'm going." Mom smiles and moves to the doorway but she trips halfway across the room. I cry out in alarm and reach for her but she catches herself on my dresser near the door. As one, the two of us look down to see what she had fallen over. _

_It's a baseball cap. It's dusty and dingy, a faded red color. I know that cap…I __**know it. **__ My head screams in pain and I have to squint, tears in my eyes. _

_Mom sighs exasperatedly somewhere out of my line of sight. "I swear! Audrey, you need to tell Mathias to pick up his stuff more regularly. I think we still have a pair of his shoes in the coat closet!" _

_Mathias? I frown at the cap. But…but…_

"_Mathias doesn't wear caps." My lips feel numb as I say it and suddenly, my head stops hurting, the pressure is released. Mom freezes near the door and looks up. There's something akin to fear in her bright blue eyes. _

"_What? Of course he wears caps," she says and there's a frantic edge to her voice. "He wears them all the time." _

_**Kid!**_

_The word repeats loudly but it's no longer in my head. It seeps through the walls, down the hall, from the windows and the ceiling and the floor. I stare at my feet for a moment but then look up at my Mom. Tears slip down my cheeks and I now know why my chest feels like it's caving in. _

"_Mathias doesn't wear caps Mom," I say. "He doesn't like anything to ruin his hair. But I know who does." _

_My Mom shakes her head, clings to my dresser, and now there are tears in her eyes. That just confirms everything because my Mom __**never **__cried. Not even at the end. _

"_Don't say it Audrey," she begs me. "If you don't say it, you can stay here. With us. Irina, Manny, Sensei, Mathias, Annie Marie, and __**Kaleigh. **__You can stay and not worry about anything. You can be safe and warm and happy."_

_I smile and my heart shatters, tears hot in my mouth. "This is a dream Mom," I tell her. "Nothing but a dream. You're…you're all dead." I laugh and it hurts, god it fucking hurts; I avert my eyes and look around the room, all my posters and things from my past life. "And I knew it, all along. My mind just didn't want me to remember, tried to stop me. But I knew; my chest hurt so much from seeing you because I knew."_

_Lifting up my eyes, I look at the woman across from me that's nothing more than a memory. "I love you Mom. I wish I could have told you one last time." My Mom's face contorts and then shatters into a million pieces, falling to the floor like glass and shifting into fine sand. Around me, the room starts to dissolve; piece by piece it all tumbles down. The door falls away, as does the smell of bacon and pancakes, the voices of my siblings crystallizing and exploding. My walls melt, taking pictures and posters and memories along with them. The last thing to go is my bed, warm and soft and good. I look down at the quilt Mom made me, bright green to match my eyes, uneven and shoddy because she never really could sew, and then that too is gone. _

_I fall into darkness, head over heels, and the last thing I think is how I wished I could have stayed. _

_#_

"Kid!"

I wake up with a start, the remnants of a dream fading away, and snap open my eyes. Only to close them automatically and realize I'm dying because my brain is slowly sliding out of my ear. _God. _My fucking **head. **

Someone snorts. "Yeah. That happens when ya get piss ass drunk." It takes me a moment to realize I spoke out loud and then another to recognize Daryl's voice.

Opening my eyes again, slower this time, I squint into the light and find myself staring at a white, tiled ceiling. Not a tent. My brain takes a couple of minutes to play catch up and remember we're in the CDC.

Head still feeling like it's about to split down the middle, I shift my face to look around me. Blue fabric dances along my peripherals and when I flex my fingers I find a warm, worn quilt. What? Continuing on, I find myself on a soft couch, head cushioned on a throw pillow. I don't remember how I got here; I don't remember much at all. There was dinner and drinks—a lot of fucking drinks—and then…a shower and…

Someone moves around the room and I sit up in alarm, head and stomach both protesting the movement. Daryl looks up from where he's lacing his boots near the door. He's dressed in clean jeans, a new clean, brown, plaid, sleeveless shirt and he's free of all dirt and grime. He still has some scruff and hair on his chin but it's weird to see his skin scrubbed and pale.

Suddenly, this image of a shirtless Daryl in jeans, with bare feet and water dripping from his hair flashes across my mind. I wince when a pulse of pain follows it and drop my head into my hand.

"_Fuucck," _I groan. My head is swimming and bile rises in the back of my throat. I barely manage to keep it down. "What…what happened?"

"Ya got shitfaced," Daryl supplies from somewhere in the room. He's on the move again but I don't have the energy to look up.

Okay. I remember drinking. That was a horrible idea. Why had I done that?! Fucking stupid. But then… don't…

A thought occurs to me and I shift my face to stare at the door through slitted eyes. My stuff is nowhere to be found. Instead, Daryl's duffle and crossbow and shotgun occupy their space, which can only mean…

My heart stops and my body flushes hot. Dread fills me up to the brim but when I look down, I thankfully see Mathias' track shirt still covering my chest. The blood unfreezes in my veins—I'm still clothed thank Christ—but I feel no less queasy. Clearing my throat, which hurts way more than it should, I go to ask the question rattling against my teeth.

"D…daryl?" The hunter pauses on the other side of the room where he's busying himself with something. There's a cautious light in his eyes. "Wh…what am I uh doing here? I…in your room I mean?"

I can't remember. I don't remember anything and it makes me feel sick and god what if I said something to Daryl? Something stupid or, even worse, personal? My head pounds in mocking and I cradle my skull to keep it from coming to pieces.

It takes a minute for Daryl to reply but when he does, it's in typical Daryl fashion. "Tch," he snorts as he stops to the desk at the back of the room. "How should I know? Ya knocked on my door in the middle of the night, came in, and passed the fuck out. I had to sleep on the goddamn floor cuz ya took the fuckin couch."

"T…that's it?" I ask. Swinging my feet off the couch, I sit on the edge and stare at Daryl's back. The hunter shrugs and I still can't see his face.

"That's all I remember. The hell ya want from me?"

"N…nothing! I…was just curious." Something about Daryl's words doesn't sit right with me but I can't pinpoint what. Not with my head swimming like it is. Daryl mutters something that I can't hear and then he's swinging around and walking towards me. Stupidly, I clutch what must be his quilt to my chest and stare at him in confusion. He rolls his eyes when he sees me.

"Ya need to eat and then get out. Everyone's already bein _curious _bout you kid and I don't need those assholes on my back." I frown and wonder what time it is, am about to ask, before I realize Daryl's holding something out to me and the smell reaches my nose.

One minute, I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, staring at the plate of eggs and bacon that Daryl is holding, and the next I'm bolting across the room and falling down at the toilet. Pain flares in my ankle and side and wrist but it all is eclipsed as my stomach tries to crawl out of my mouth.

Between the bouts of vomiting and dry heaving, I think I hear Daryl laugh.

* * *

><p>As the kid vomits in the bathroom, Daryl laughs and thinks it must be her first hangover. He feels kinda sorry for her. Yeah, he's not in much better condition, his head is killin him and before breakfast it was like somethin died in his mouth, but he hadn't vomited. He hasn't vomited because of a hangover in years.<p>

Listenin to the retches through the half closed bathroom door, he sets the plate of cold food down on the couch and goes over to his stuff. He picks up his crossbow and scowls at the three remainin bolts. His first thought is that he'll need more before he remembers where he is and realizes he won't have to hunt any more. At least not for a long time.

He doesn't know why but the thought doesn't sit right with him; it almost feels like a lie.

The flush of the toilet tears the hunter from his thoughts and he looks back toward the bathroom. The sink runs for a minute and it sound like the kid is washin her mouth out. Daryl hears her gargle and then spit, the water turns off and the door creaks open.

Audrey leans against the doorjamb and runs the back of her wrist across her mouth. There are black circles around her eyes and her skin is paler than usual, her bruises standin out vividly in stark relief. She looks small and slight crumpled there and Daryl feels somethin in his gut wrench when she looks up at him with pleadin green eyes.

"If I asked you to kill me," she rasps quietly. "Would you do it quickly?"

Daryl pushes back the thoughts of Merle and guilt and instead rolls his eyes again. "Quit bein melodramatic," he grunts. "Here." Fishin into his pocket, he pulls out the bottle of aspirin he snagged from the doctor and grabs the bottle of water he brought back. Audrey sighs and shuffles closer and he holds out the items to her. "Take these and then see if ya can eat somethin."

The kid reaches out slowly and takes the white pills from the palm of his hand; she drops them in her mouth and chases them with a sip of water. Her eyes never leave his and he squirms beneath their color.

"Thank you," she whispers and Daryl is suddenly thrown back to last night and her drunken confessions. He averts his gaze and ignores the heat in his cheeks.

"Not doin it for ya. Just don't want Walsh or Chinaman up my ass all day." It's a lie and he knows its; by the way he sees the kid grin out the corner of his eye, she knows it too.

"Well regardless. Thanks." She doesn't say if she meant for the food or the pills or last night but Daryl thinks maybe she means all of the above.

"Eat kid," he says and then he goes to the bathroom to finish off washin his clothes.

* * *

><p>The food tastes bland and cold but I reluctantly try to eat it anyway. My stomach doesn't know whether to be thankful or pissed so it ties itself in painful knots with indecision. Thankfully, I don't get a chance to choke down very much. After only a few bites, a commotion sounds off in the hallway. I pause, fork halfway to my mouth, and frown at the door of the office.<p>

"The fuck is goin on?" I turn to see Daryl standing in the door of the bathroom, what looks to be a sopping wet shirt clenched in his fist. I shrug and set the plate down.

"I don't know." The hunter growls something but I'm already on my feet, limping towards the door. I press my ear to the wood and voices reverberate back to me, getting louder and louder. Frown deepening, I open the door a sliver and clear sound bleeds into the room.

"Dr. Jenner! Dr. Jenner please wait. Where are we going?" That's Lori's voice.

"Jenner." And there's Rick. But I don't hear the doctor's reply. I open the door a little wider but then a blur of white passes me followed by a moving myriad of colors. More questions are thrown and ignored and I open the door halfway to watch everyone turn the corner, following Dr. Jenner God knows where.

"What the hell?" I mutter to myself. What was that about?

I'm contemplating whether or not to follow them when Daryl makes the decision for me.

"Get a move on kid or we'll lose 'em!" Glancing over my shoulder, I meet blue eyes that are a lot closer than I had assumed. The hunter cocks an eyebrow at me and I start as I process his words.

"Oh! Yeah uh sorry." I fling the door completely open and pad into the hallway, Daryl right on my heels. The two of us are silent as we follow the other voices and I can't help but think I'm not the only curious one around here.

We find the others in the big auditorium room that Dr. Jenner had first led us to. This time, however, all the lights are on, and one of the far walls is flickering with color. It takes me a moment to realize the wall is not a wall at all but a large screen. I turn to Daryl and he meets my gaze with a weirded out look. The two of us move quietly into the room and join the others near the front.

"Few people ever got the chance to see this," Dr. Jenner is telling the rest of the group. "Very few." Everyone shifts among the computers, finds a spot to stand. I look around, try to find a chair because my ankle is killing me and so is my head, though slightly less since Daryl gave me that aspirin, but instead I find Glenn staring at me from a few stations away. There's this odd look on his face, an expression like pain, but he looks away quickly and I'm left to stare at the side of his face. What was that?

Carl's voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn to see him pointing at the large screen. "Is that a brain?" he asks Dr. Jenner beside him. I frown and look at the screen to see that in fact Carl is right; there is some kind of 3D diagram of a person's head and brain projected on the screen.

"Yes," I hear Dr. Jenner respond. "A very extraordinary one. Not…that it matters in the end." His voice gets very sad at the end and I drop my eyes to look at him but he's staring at the screen still. "Vi, take us in for EIV."

"Enhanced internal view," the female computer voice drones back and then the screen shifts. It rotates the picture of the head and brain horizontally…and then zooms in and keeps on going.

"The hell?" Daryl mutters and I turn to see he's not too far away, maybe a station or two to the left. His brow is furrowed in confusion as he stares at the blinking screen.

Shane clears his throat from somewhere in the room. "What…what are those lights?" he asks.

Now, I may have been otherwise academically inclined…but that doesn't mean I didn't pay attention in Biology. I recognize the alien looking webs in front of me, know that the flashing lights are electrical impulses. But why is Jenner showing us brain activity?

"That's a person's life," Jenner begins to explain. "Experiences, memories. It's everything." He gestures at the screen and turns to address everyone. "Somewhere in all that organic wiring, all those ripples of light, is _you—_the thing that makes you unique. And human."

He pauses to let that soak in and there's a harsh noise at my side. Daryl scowls at the doctor and folds his arms across his chest, hands tucked into his armpits. I don't know how but I recognize this as one of his many defensive positions. "What? You don't make sense ever?" he growls.

Dr. Jenner purses his lips and looks irritated. "Those are _synapses._" He says the word slowly and empathetically. I frown because I can hear his condescending tone. "They are electric impulses in the brain that carry all the messages. They determine everything a person says, does or thinks from the _moment _of birth…to the moment of death." His eyes drop away from the hunter near the end and slide back up to the screen. His voice is tinged with melancholy again.

Rick shifts a few rows away and I see him walk towards the now quiet doctor. "Death? Is that what this is? A vigil?" he asks. My blood runs cold for an instant. A vigil? Is…is this in real time? Are…we watching someone die?

"Yes," Dr. Jenner says and I cast my eyes wildly about as if the dying person is in the room with us before he softly continues. "Or rather the playback of the vigil."

"This person died?" Andrea moves in my peripherals. I don't look at her though because every time I do I'm reminded too much of Amy. "Who?"

"Test subject 19. Someone who was bitten and infected and volunteered to have us record the process." I take in Dr. Jenner's words. So this person is dead…has been for a while. They were bitten…and infected. Suddenly, I know why Dr. Jenner is showing us this.

"Vi, scan forward to the first event," the doctor commands. The computer responds and the screen above us seems to fast-forward. It stops quickly but the picture is no longer the same. Where the brain used to be all blue and white flashing lights, it now has a nest of dark branches, near the base of the skull. My stomach roils at the sight but I can't turn away.

"What is that?" Glenn speaks up. Dr. Jenner clears his throat and I have this sudden, simultaneous urge to tell him to shut up and speak faster. I don't want to know what happens after infection but if I don't know I'll come apart at the seams.

"It enters the brain like meningitis. The adrenal glands hemorrhage, the brain goes into shut down, then the major organs." As the doctor speaks, the figure on the screen writhes and the brain continues to go dark, little by little, until, abruptly, all the synapses go out. Like someone flicked a switch. The body stops moving.

"Then death." Dr. Jenner goes quiet, drops his head. "Everything you ever were or ever will be…gone."

I stare at the screen, at the dark brain and still figure. So. This is what happens. This is what happened to Amy and my family and to—

"Is that what happened to Jim?" I hear Sophia quietly ask her mother. Carol shushes her but says yes anyway. Something breaks in my head and I want to shout _no it's not because I killed him dead look at this blood on my hands _but before I can confess, before I can be condemned, Jenner is speaking up again.

"Scan to the second event."

I look up, my vision slightly blurred with tears, and watch the screen fast forward again. "The resurrection times vary wildly," Dr. Jenner narrates. "We had reports of it happening in as little as three minutes. The longest we heard of was eight hours. In…in the case of this patient it was two hours, one minute, seven seconds."

At the end of his statement, lights flare on the screen once more. But it's not the same. The lights are dim and red, centered near the base of the skull. The rest of the brain is dark.

"It restarts the brain?" Lori sounds incredulous. Dr. Jenner laughs dryly.

"No. No just the brain _stem. _Basically, it gets them up and moving."

"But they're…not alive?"

Jenner turns to Rick, gestures at the screen. "You tell me," he says and he sounds like every teacher that ever tried to get their students to arrive to a conclusion on their own, no hand holding, no coddling.

Rick moves his eyes from the doctor to the screen. He shakes his head slowly. "It's nothing like before. Most of that brain is dark."

"Dark, lifeless, dead," Jenner adds. "The frontal lobe, the neocortex, the human part—that doesn't come back. The _you _part."

"So they're not human." Everyone turns to me and I realize I've spoken out loud. I can't help but go on now. "They're…shells. They're not…"

"Who you knew?" Jenner finishes for me. I nod and he smiles grimly.

"No," he says. "They're not who you knew. They are just husks, driven by mindless instinct." My chest almost feels a little lighter at that but not by much. Not by much at all.

Suddenly, someone gasps and we all whirl back to the screen. Nothing moves, the brain is dead, and now there's this furrow right through the middle of it. "God. What was that?" Carol exclaims.

Andrea moves again, walks closer to the screen. "He shot his patient in the head," she remarks and her voice is oddly removed. I wonder if she's thinking of Amy. My heart clenches at the thought of my late friend and my eyes burn. "Didn't you?"

Jenner doesn't respond, just tells the computers to shut off. His face screams guilt and regret and pain, etched into every line on his face. Andrea, however, doesn't relent. She follows him as he walks to a computer and her voice is hard, flinty.

"You have no idea what it is, do you? Do you?!"

The older doctor sighs and looks around at the rest of us. "It…could be microbial, viral, parasitic, fungal." He shrugs as if to say _take your pick. _

Jacqui sniffles somewhere to my right and her voice breaks when she says, "Or the wrath of _God?"_

"Well…there is that." He smiles as if he's privy to some secret joke.

Andrea keeps at the doctor, demands answers, for Amy I'm guessing. But the more she asks and the more Jenner answers…the more I don't want to hear. He tells us how he hasn't heard from anyone in a month, he tells us how he can't know for sure who, if anyone, is left. He tells us we're basically all alone, all that's left. He tells us it's just about hopeless.

I walked all the way from Dalton and for what? I survived this long and why? What's the point? Sensei's voice whispers to me that I must endure but I can't find a reason any more. All my old family is dead; my new one has been dropping like flies. What am I fighting for?

I find myself sitting and not knowing how I got there. I stare at the ground and listen to the others argue and fight, deny that this all can't be true. But I don't struggle with it. I'm suddenly so tired and…fed up. The high from last night is gone, the laughs and lightheartedness. And I'm stuck with this bitter reality.

"_You can stay and not worry about anything. You can be safe and warm and happy."_

My dream comes back to me like a punch and as I stare at the floor between my bare feet, a single tear slips out of my eye and plops to the ground. Mom and Irina and Manny. They…it was like none of this ever happened. We were happy and safe. It was good. Maybe I should have stayed there, just never woken up.

"Man, I'm gonna get shit-faced drunk again," Daryl mutters from my side and I think I'll join him. I'll drink and drink and drink and maybe this time…I'll leave well enough alone and listen to Mom's advice.

Distantly, I hear Jenner say we're running out of fuel, that we only have an hour left. Vi adds in that something called "decontamination" will occur when all the fuel is gone. Someone demands to know what that means. Jenner walks away without a word. I sit there and stare at my feet and then I begin to laugh.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" For a second I think it's Daryl addressing me but when I look up, it's Shane. Oh well. I grin at him lazily and get to my feet. I ignore everyone's eyes and go to follow Jenner.

"If anyone needs me, I'll be in the cafeteria," I call out. "Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow…well you know the rest."

No one stops me as I go and as I walk the hallways alone, I wonder how much vodka I can down in one hour.

I wonder if there's enough to kill me.

* * *

><p>The group goes it's own way after that. The women and children go to the rec room, the old man accompanies them. The men go off to search for somethin and Daryl lets them, returns to his room instead.<p>

He's not alone for long, however. Maybe five minutes has passed, where Daryl stuffed all his clothes—still damp but fuck it—into his bag again when there's a knock at his door.

Unsurprisingly, the kid stands there with fists full of liquor. She doesn't even ask to come in this time around, just slides passed him and into the room.

"Come in," he grumbles sarcastically as he shuts the door. Audrey ignores him.

"You want to start with shots or something else?" she asks in way of greeting. In her left hand is a bottle of fine whiskey; cradled awkwardly in the crook of her right elbow is a bottle of tequila. She regards him with dead eyes and a cocked eyebrow and, when he doesn't reply, she goes for the whiskey.

"Crown it is." She cracks the top off the bottle off the Crown Royal and dumps the tequila on the couch. The plate of eggs she had abandoned earlier bounces with the movement and tips over on the floor. The kid doesn't even flinch. Tipping back her neck, she pours whiskey straight down her throat as she walks over to the big office desk. She sputters and coughs, curses as it burns but quickly goes for another. Daryl purses his lips at the sight but doesn't stop her.

When she reaches the desk, Audrey shakily hoists herself up. She's still in the clothes she slept in last night, short shorts and a guys tank top with _Linardos _stamped across the back; her feet are still bare. Daryl looks away and goes for the tequila instead.

They drink in silence for a time, Daryl pacin bout the room and the kid perched on the desk. It's Audrey, of course, that breaks the silence.

"It's funny," she says out of the blue. Daryl pauses mid step and shoots her a bemused scowl because he can't find anythin funny bout their situation.

"What the fuck is funny?"

Audrey doesn't flinch at his harshness, just continues to stare into space and gulp down whiskey. "Well not funny. Maybe ironic. I mean, we come all this way right, for a cure. And the cure we find is something that's been right in front of us the whole time." She puts her fingers to her temple, in the shape of a gun, and mimes pullin a trigger. "How simple right?"

Daryl's insides twist and he feels like he did when Audrey smashed skulls back at the quarry with him. Uneasy. He looks at the kid and realizes her eyes have started dull again. She's checkin out.

And it makes him angry. So angry that he starts pacin again, sharp, repetitious motions. "That's a cop out kid, and you know it," he snarls as he passes her. She shrugs and sticks her good leg out when he passes again, toes brushin the outside of his thigh.

"Cure, cop out. Same difference." She takes another swig. "You heard Jenner. There's nothing left."

"So _what? _Ya just throw in the towel? When'd you become a coward?"

A glint leaps into the kid's otherwise flat eyes and Daryl can't help but internally smirk in victory. "I'm not a coward," she says, an edge to her words. "I'm just…tired."

"Cry me a river, we're all tired."

"That's my point!" She sits up a little straighter and points at him with the whiskey bottle. Amber liquid splashes onto her wrist. "We're _all _tired. So why are you fighting? Why not just give in and drink to the last?" She raises her bottle as if in toast and looks at him to answer.

Daryl frowns and goes to respond…but can't think of anythin to say. He doesn't wanna give up but…he doesn't know why. The kid has a point. Why fight? _Why?_

Before he can find out, there's a loud whirlin sound and the room is suddenly thrown into darkness. Audrey gasps quietly, if only in surprise, and Daryl goes tense. Darkness is never good; you can't see what's comin for you in the dark. On edge, Daryl moves from memory to the door, hears voices out in the hallway. He wrenches it open and sticks his head out, sees people comin out their own rooms.

"What's goin on? Why's everythin turnin off?" No one answers him and suddenly, there's a tug on his hand. He jerks back and the bottle of tequila transfers to the doctor's hand as he walks passed without a word. Daryl stares at his back incredibly and moves to automatically follow. It's only when he feels a tug on the back of his shirt that he realizes the kid's followin him, right on his heels.

The doctor keeps walkin but he answers Daryl's question. "Energy is being prioritized," he says over his shoulder. At Daryl's back he hears the old man cry out in indignation.

"Lights aren't a priority? Or _air?" _It's then that Daryl realizes he can't hear the A/C anymore and the knot in his gut tightens.

Shruggin, the doctor keeps goin. "It's not up to me. Zone 5 is suting itself down." He turns the corner at the end of the hallway and goes in the direction of the big room with the screen.

Daryl feels a flare of heat spiral through his veins. "What the hell does that mean?" he demands. "Hey! Hey!" He reaches out and grabs the doc's shoulder. He's shrugged off violently. Daryl gnashes his teeth and keeps up his barrage of questions. "Hey asshole I'm talkin to ya! What do ya mean it's shuttin itself down?! It's a building! How can it do anythin?"

The doctor snorts. "You'd be surprised." Daryl scowls and goes to grab the cryptic sonva bitch but the asshole moves dows the stairs and Grimes catches him there.

"Jenner, what's happening?" the cop demands. His voice is low and tight. Daryl thinks _fuck _cuz shit must be headin to hell fast.

"The system is dropping all the nonessential uses of power. It's designed to keep the computers running to the _last _possible second. That started as we approached the half hour mark." He walks as he talks and at the end of his explanation, the group rounds the corner into the big room. The huge red clock declares _31:28, 31:27, 31:26 _and the doctor says, "Right on schedule."

The doctor reaches the circle of computers and pauses. He takes a swig of Daryl's tequila and hands it back. The hunter snatches it fast and some spills on the ground.

"It was the French," he says and Daryl frowns in confusion before realizin the doc ain't talkin to him. He follows the other man's line of sight and finds the older blonde frownin too.

"What?" she asks.

"They were the last ones to hold out as far as I know. While our people were bolting out the doors and committing suicide in the hallways, they stayed in the labs till the end. They thought they were close to a solution," the doctor tells them before mountin the stairs that lead to the computers.

"What happened?" someone calls out after him. Daryl doesn't turn to see who it was.

The doctor stops again and turns to look at them. Daryl doesn't like what he sees in the man's face, his brown eyes. "The same thing that's happening here," he responds, gesturin out around them. "No power grid. Ran out of juice." He tears his eyes away and then laughs before lookin back at them. Daryl thinks the doc's gone crazy when he says, "The world runs on _fossil _fuels. I mean how stupid is that? You'd think after all this time we'd come up with better methods of energy."

There's a moments pause where the doctor's words soak in and then the rest of the group comes to Daryl's conclusion: the doc is batshit. Walsh gets pissed, rounds on the doctor, but Grimes is afraid. Daryl can see it in his eyes. The former sheriff tells his wife to get their things and that they're leavin. He gives the same order to everyone else and, though Daryl hates to take orders from _anyone, _he finds himself movin to comply cuz he doesn't like that huge clock countin down on the wall or the look of resigned relief on the doc's face as he goes to sit at a computer.

But before anyone can move an alarm goes off abruptly, loud enough to rupture eardrums. A flashin red light follows and that robot voice from the computer echoes through the room, "Thirty minutes to decontamination."

The doctor rushes to a computer and types away at somethin. Daryl doesn't give a shit. He whirls around and finds the kid right behind him, wide eyes lookin up at the red flashin lights and bottle of whiskey lax in her fingers. Daryl doesn't think; just reacts. He reaches out and grabs the kid's shoulder, spins her around and nudges her to the door.

"W…what—?" the kid starts but he cuts her off.

"Shut up kid! We gotta get out of here so come on!" He tugs her towards the door and everyone is followin suit…until there's a sharp, loud beep followed by a whirlin noise and the doors suddenly slam shut, metal plates risin from the bottom and blockin the entrances.

"Di…did you just lock us in?" Daryl hears the Chinaman scream. "He…he just _locked us in!" _

Daryl doesn't want to believe it; he stares at all the doors, lookin for a way out, but it's all metal and shut up. They're trapped.

And it's cuz of the fuckin doctor. Daryl feels his blood turn to lava and he whips around and runs for the motherfucker currently sittin at a computer as if he didn't just seal their graves.

"You son of a bitch!" he hears himself roar. "You locked us in here!" He lunges for the doctor and manages to grab him by the shoulders before he's ripped away by Walsh and the nigger, their arms hard and barrin. Daryl fights them with all that he has, teeth bared, spittin curses and throwin punches cuz that fucker locked them in here and he knows in the pit of his gut that it's a death sentence. Daryl Dixon wasn't bout to roll over and except that though. Fuck that.

He elbows Walsh in the ribs and the asshole's grip slips; he's just tore out of the nigger's grasp too and goin for the doc again when the kid is suddenly in his way. Her hands are up, palms out, and they push firmly against his chest. He sees her face grimace at the pain in her wrist but she doesn't relent. Daryl snarls at her and she sets her jaw right back. She doesn't say a word but for some reason, Daryl subsides. He thinks it has somethin to do with last night and him drunkenly yellin at her, the way she flinched and looked afraid. More than anythin, more than tears or a dead look in her eye, Daryl _hates _it when the kid looks scared. Especially when it's directed at him.

Beyond the two of them, Daryl hears Grimes and the doc arguin. Grimes demands the doors be opened; the doc says it's pointless, that all the doors to the surface are locked down. Daryl gnashes his teeth and shouts over the kid's shoulder, "Well open the goddamn things." He tries to move but Audrey holds him at bay.

The doc frowns and shakes his head. "That's not something I control. The computers do." He looks around and finds Grimes, points at the former cop. "I _told _you that once the front door closed, it wouldn't open again. You heard me say that!"

Someone whimpers, Daryl thinks it's one of the kids, and the doc's face goes soft. It pisses the hunter off more.

"It's better this way."

Grimes growls and whirls on the doc. "What is? What _happens _in 28 minutes!?"

The doc averts his eyes and goes back to typin but Grimes has finally had enough. He grabs the back of the doctor's chair and yanks it around, screams his question again. But the doc doesn't take it sittin down. He jumps to his feet and gets in the former cop's face.

"Do you _know _what this place **is?!" **he shouts. His eyes have gone wild and the veins in his neck stand out. "We protected the public from _**very nasty stuff! **_Weaponized smallpox!" As he shouts, he paces around, get's in everyone's face. He turns to Daryl and the hunter goes rigid but the kid spins around suddenly and pushes her spine into his chest as a way of physically barrin him from movin. The doctor continues to rant. "Ebola strains that could wipe out _half the country! Stuff you don't want getting out! __**Ever!"**_

Everyone is silent and just stares at the insane doctor. Daryl feels himself startin to pant from adrenaline, from anger. The doc glares at them all but then suddenly subsides, moves back to his seat and sits. When he speaks again, he's quiet and calm and that makes him seem even more batshit.

"In the event of a catastrophic power failure" he says quietly. "In a terrorist attack, for example, HITs are deployed to prevent any organisms from getting out."

Another flare of warmth scalds through Daryl's veins cuz the doc is usin that stupid mumbo jumbo that he can't understand. But, apparently, no one else understands either.

"HITs?" Grimes asks. The doctor sighs and orders the computer to define.

The female voice echoes through the room and rattles off some long-winded explanation. There are big words and more jargon and it makes Daryl's head spin but he understands one word and that's enough.

_Explosives. _

Audrey goes rigid along his chest and around him, people start to cry. Grimes goes to his wife, holds his kid; Walsh tears at his hair and disbelief burns through them all. As the computer falls silent, the doctor inhales sharply and there's this odd smile to his face.

"It sets the air on fire," he breathes and Daryl wants nothin more than to rip his goddamn face off. "No pain. An end to sorrow, grief…regret. The end…of everything."

One of the kids start to openly sob, loud and gratin, and Daryl can do nothin but stand there as the clock counts down to their deaths.

* * *

><p><em>12:00<em>

_11: 59_

_11:58_

I stare at the bright red numbers, at how they shrunk little by little. I find it kind of fitting that their color is red. Red for blood, red for life, red for death. It's fitting. It really is.

Across from me, sitting on the floor in the arms of their mothers, Carl and Sophia weep. Lori and Carol fare little better and around me, people pace and curse and fret. I hear a shattering of glass and Daryl roaring for Jenner to open the door. Jenner stays silent, stares up at the screen where the bright red numbers are and I see him mouthing the decreasing digits. He's accepted this; wants this. Others do not. Soon, I hear Shane and T-Dog shouting and the echoing clang of metal on metal. I turn and see them going at the door with axes. I want to say just _let it be. _

Over the din of Daryl grunting and hacking away at the doors, Jenner turns to Lori and Carol. "You should've left well enough alone," he tells them, like he's read my mind. "It would've been so _much _easier."

"Easier for who?" Lori snarls. Her eyes are large and wet and her voice shakes. She clings to her son and glares at Jenner with righteous anger.

"All of you," the doctor goes on gently. He really is compassionate. He gave us one last night free of worry, a last meal, and now he is giving us a painless way to go. I feel I should almost thank him. "You know what's out there," he continues. "A short, brutal life and an agonizing death."

I think of Amy and Jim, Simon, Rebecca, Abby, Mr. St James, the Morales family…I'm just so very, very tired. Jenner turns to Andrea, talks of Amy, but I don't listen. I watch the clock and think of Irina's giggles, my Mom's bright red hair, Manny's gap toothed smile. Maybe, just maybe, I'll see them again. Even though I don't necessarily deserve it.

Above my head, Rick gets in Jenner's face and snarls, "_I don't want __**this.**__"_

Shane walks up suddenly, drenched in sweat. Rick tears his eyes from the doctor and turns to his best friend but the other former cop just shakes his head. "Can't…make a dent," he gasps out. I look over his shoulder and there doesn't even seem to be a scratch along the door he'd been hammering away at.

Beside me, Dr. Jenner sighs. "Those doors are designed to withstand a rocket launcher," he explains as if he's talking to children.

There's a sudden rush of footsteps and I look up to see Daryl sprinting up the stairs, dark rage, not unlike his brother's, bright in his eyes. "Well yer head ain't," he roars and goes to swing the axe in his head at the seated doctor. Rick sees him coming, goes to intercept him and all the men follow suit.

"Whoa whoa! Daryl stop!"

"Back up! Back up!"

"Drop the goddamn axe Dixon!"

It takes me a minute to realize I'm on my feet and moving but then I'm standing in front of Daryl, reaching up and grabbing the axe he still has poised above his head. He scowls at me, his eyes shouting for me to step aside. But I don't. I take the axe from his hand, the weapon heavy, and the men shove him back. He snarls and stalks around the other side of the computers, paces back and forth like a trapped beast. I follow and stand between him and the doctor, axe leaning against the computer at my back.

Rick and the other's continue to argue with Jenner. Nothing changes. The doors don't open and no one budges from their resolve. Everyone still wants out; Jenner keeps the doors locked shut and _tries _to make them see.

"There is no _hope," _he entreats with Rick. "There never was."

I laugh under my breath because I've come to realize that, if only miles and months too late.

But Rick is relentless, won't let up. "There is _always _hope," he says adamantly. And the two sides go back and forth, an endless repetition, and nothing changes. Andrea is like me, she's tired. She had to see her sister die and put a bullet in her head. She's had enough. She tries to persuade the others but to no avail. Carol starts to sob louder than her daughter and rounds on the doctor seated before her.

"This isn't right!" she wails. Tears stream from her pale, blue eyes. "You can't just keep us here!"

Dr. Jenner leans forward, his eyes and voice soft. "One _tiny _moment," he tells her. "A millisecond! No pain." He says this like he can't understand why no one else wants it. Like he's confused at why these people cling to life, what they fight for. I think maybe…it's just habit. We cling to life out of habit because we know nothing else.

"My daughter doesn't deserve to die like this!" Carol cries out. I turn to her and see Sophia's freckled, frightened face. In all honesty, her daughter doesn't deserve to die period. But that's not the way of the world. Things die and tragedies happen and there's no rhyme or reason. You have to accept it. I wish I could save them, I said I would, I _promised, _but…maybe this is salvation.

Shane apparently doesn't think so. As Dr. Jenner continues to try—"Wouldn't it be kinder, more compassionate to just hold your loved ones and wait for the clock to run down?—the former cop reaches for his shotgun and abruptly cocks it. People start to shout again, Rick runs to grab his friend's gun, the men go to subdue him, but unlike Daryl, he subsides for no one and nothing. His eyes are wild, crazy, _dark, _and I remember the day I met him, how I stepped away with a fear I couldn't place. Maybe this is why.

I don't try to stop him.

"Open that door," he growls quietly to Jenner. The barrel of his shotgun presses harshly against the doctor's cheekbone. "Or I'm gonna _blow your head off! __**Do you hear me?!**__"_

Rick gets in Shane's face, whispers urgently in his ear to back down, how they'll never get out otherwise. It doesn't look like Shane is listening and I turn to look at the clock.

_7:15_

For the first instance in a long while, I wish time would speed up instead of slow down.

To the side of me, Shane screams in rage and I hear a gun go off just as I'm yanked painfully to the side. I cry out and stumble but hands quickly steady me. Hands with calluses, warm and worn. I look up into Daryl's blue eyes and look over to the computer I was standing out. There are a few holes from where stray pellets from Shane's gone had punched through the desk, the computers. A few holes right where I had been standing.

"Thank you," I tell Daryl quietly. Even if I'm waiting to die, I'm grateful to do it with a few less holes and a lot less pain. He scowls at me and looks away, right to where Shane and Rick wrestle for the shotgun. Shane loses, ends up on his back with blood in the corner of his mouth from where Rick had clocked him. Rick spits some words at him and Shane snarls right back. People shuffle and cry and Jenner just turns to look at the clock again. I think I see him smile.

"I think you're lying," Rick says fervently after a time. He whirls on Jenner and stares at him with piercing eyes. The doctor blinks, faces his accuser.

"What?"

"You're _lying,_" Rick repeats. "About no hope. If that were true, you would have bolted with the rest or taken the easy way out. But you didn't. You chose the hard path. Why?"

Dr. Jenner sits up straight and slowly shakes his head. There's a bitter twist to his pale lips. "It doesn't matter," he says quietly.

"It _does _matter. It always matters. You stayed when others ran. _**Why**__?_"

The bitterness of Jenner's expression bleeds into irritation, then anger. He spins on Rick and leans into his face. "_Not _because I wanted to," he grits out empathetically. "I made a promise to her." He points at the screen, at red numbers, and I feel confusion before he continues, "My _**wife.**_"

"T…test subject 19 was your wife?" Lori stutters out in reference to the brain we saw on the screen earlier, the infected one that Jenner ended up killing.

And oh. It makes sense now. All of it. I look at this pale, thin doctor and understand him so much it physically _aches. _He made a promise, a last promise to someone he loved. To someone he cared about. And it's kept him, bound and chained, all this time. It wasn't of his decision, his making.

He did it because he had no other choice. He had to honor his wife's last wishes.

As I had tried to honor Sensei's.

"_You must never, __**ever, **__give up__**. **__No matter the trials, no matter the tribulations, no matter the difficulty, you must endure, you must continue on. Remember this Audrey Lara Bennett. Remember this and never forget it."_

Behind me I hear clanging again. I turn to see Daryl hacking at the doors with the axe that is no longer at my side. I wonder if he made a promise to someone. I wonder if that's what keeps him going.

"Your wife didn't have a choice," I hear Rick say. "But you do. And that's all we _want: _a choice, a **chance.**"

"Let us keep trying as long as we can," his wife adds, her voice wavering around tears.

I look back at Jenner and see something in his face give, resignation flooding his expression. "I told you topside's locked down," he sighs. "I can't open those." But, despite his words, he goes over to a computer, types something and then there's this soft beep. Something hisses and everyone whirls to see the doors lower and the hallways gape wide. At one of the exits, Daryl spins around and gestures to everyone.

"Come on! We gotta get the fuck outta here!"

I turn to the clock.

_4:31_

People start screaming, everyone starts running. Except for Jenner…and me…and Andrea…and Jacqui. I look at the older woman in surprise but she stares back with watery eyes. She's tired too.

Rick thanks Jenner and the doctor replies with words I can't hear; whispers something to the former cop before Lori drags him away. I shift backwards and try not to draw attention to myself like Jacqui has done. T-Dog tries to pull her towards the stairs but she bats him away, crying openly now.

"No! No, I'm staying," she cries. "I'm staying sweetie." T-Dog gazes at her with incredibility and attempts to persuade her but Jacqui has made her decision. We all have. She pulls away quickly, tells the others to go, and walks back towards me. Suddenly, everybody is staring and I feel their eyes like lasers on my skin. Glenn blanches, his eyes wide and horrified. I feel a stab of guilt for leaving my friend alone in this godforsaken world but I just don't have the energy anymore. I just want to _rest. _

"A…Audrey!" He screams my name, tries to fight back to me, but Shane catches him across the chest and shoves him to the hallway.

"Come on man! We gotta go! It's no use! We gotta go!" Glenn struggles the whole way, tears in his eyes, and I catch his gaze one last time to mouth _I'm sorry. _

"No! No! Audrey! Audrey, don't do this! _Don't do this!" _His shouts echo back to me even as he's dragged away. A tear slips down my cheek, unbidden, and I whisper a quiet goodbye to my last friend.

Jacqui comes to stand beside me and she envelops me in her arms. I let her, give her this last comfort and maybe myself some too. Jacqui is not Mom but…she's kind and sweet and maybe I have come to love her in the short time we had been given.

Beside us, Dale has stayed behind to try and convince Andrea to leave. God, I want to scream at him it's useless. Andrea has no one left, just lost her last family two days ago. She's…done. Just so done. I open my mouth to tell the older man to go, I don't want him to die if he has such a desire to live because of some stupid endeavor, but I don't have the chance. Just as I'm taking the breath to say those words…a hand suddenly forces itself between Jacqui and I, wraps completely around my waist, and hauls me backwards.

Jacqui cries out in shock and I scream in pain, ribs on fire, but the pressure doesn't relent. I struggle and fight, lash out, and finally connect with something that _gives. _A grunt brushes the shell of my ear and I'm dropped abruptly. I barely catch myself on a computer station before I'm whirling around.

Daryl stands a few feet away, rubbing at his ribs and his face is contorted into the most horrible scowl I've ever seen. His crossbow sticks out at an odd angle over his shoulder and my sword sticks out over the opposite, my tanto at his hip. I blink at him but don't get the chance to talk.

"Kid, get yer fuckin ass into gear and let's _go," _he growls at me. I frown and slowly shake my head.

"Daryl," I start. "I'm…I'm not—"

"Oh don't fuckin give me that bullshit! Ya ain't stayin and dyin like some pussy! Now come on!"

He lunges for me but I stumble away, shove him back with my good hand. "No Daryl!" I shout. His blue eyes go wide at my tone and I purse my lips. "No," I say softer this time. "I'm not going. I'm…tired Daryl. I told you. Just so _tired."_

Daryl bares his teeth and his eyes are like glass, cutting into me. It's like the first day we met all over again, me pinned against a tree, Daryl staring at me in disgust. "So what? Yer gonna give up cuz _life's hard? _Newsflash kid! Life ain't meant to be easy! Ya gotta suck it up and roll with the punches!"

"Well I'm tired of rolling! I've been rolling with the punches all my fucking life and I'm done! Daryl, my family is dead. So are all my friends. What's the point?! Give me a goddamn reason!"

"Yer wrong."

Daryl's words are quiet, so different from the previous shouting and I freeze. "What?" I ask in confusion.

The hunter meets my gaze and his expression ripples—hard to soft and back again. "I said yer wrong. All yer friends ain't dead. What bout Chinaman?"

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "Glenn will be fine without—"

"What bout _me?" _

I balk at that last part and stare at Daryl in nothing but shock. He scowls back at me but the expression isn't all anger anymore. It…it almost looks hurt.

"Huh? What the fuck bout me?" he snarls. "Ya goddamn come into my life and fuck it up and won't take no for a fuckin answer. Ya try and try and try to be my "friend" for god knows why and ya whittle me down to nothin. Ya make it so I have no other choice, get under my fuckin skin, and now yer just gonna check out." He spits to the side, shakes his head like a wet dog. "_Fuck you. _I ain't havin it."

I gape at Daryl, tryin to process his words. He…he considers me a friend. But I thought…

"And what bout yer Ma?" he goes on. I snap my head up. "Her name was Lisette right?" How…how did he know that? "What bout her? Ya think she'd want ya to do this? Just give up? If she was worth bein a mother, than she wouldn't."

"My Mom was an amazing mother!" I say because I can't think of anything else, can't process anything else. Daryl's eyes glint at my and he bares his teeth again.

"Yeah? Fuckin prove it."

I stare at him and want to argue but…he's right. It hits me like a bolt of lightning. Mom wouldn't want this; neither would Sensei or…or any one of my friends. They'd be…so disappointed in me; after everything I've been through and survived, for me to give up like this…it's a disgrace. And if there is an afterlife, if I do get to see all my loved ones again, I don't want to look into their eyes and see disappointment.

That's a reason right there.

It happens so fast I can't even track it. One minute I'm standing there, and the next Daryl is tugging me to the door and I'm running. At the last second, I look over my shoulder and see Jacqui smiling at me, waving beside Jenner. I think she looks almost proud.

_Goodbye Jacqui _I think but then I have no more time to idle because Daryl is pulling me along so fast, my bare feet are burning across the carpet. The elevators don't work—no energy left to be spared—so we have to take the stairs. My whole body aches and burns but I don't stop. I keep running and not for a second does Daryl let go of my hand.

On the second floor flight, there's the sound of this massive explosion and the floor shakes. I have this horrible thought that we're too late, we're about to die, be set on fire, but Daryl doesn't even pause and when we burst through onto the first floor, we see one of the huge windows to the outside have been shattered. We don't question it; just run for the opening.

When we get there, however, there's glass everywhere and my feet are still bare. I jerk to a stop, gasp out, "Daryl! My feet!" And he understands instantly because the next second, he's hoisting me up and into his arms bridal style. I flail and my arms go around his neck and shoulders, cling tight as he jumps out the window and onto the walker littered grass. He stumbles slightly with my weight but starts running almost immediately. I turn and look ahead of us, see Dale and Andrea twenty yards away. The rest of the group seems to have made it back to the cars and I have this split second sense of relief before the RV starts to honk rapidly and Lori sticks her head out the window to scream, "Get _down! Everyone get down!" _

Daryl hears her and suddenly dives for this pile of sandbags. The impact drives the breath out of my lungs and my vision dims with pain as Daryl covers my body with his and yanks a sandbag over us.

There's a moment of silence, broken only by my rapid heartbeat and Daryl's harsh pants in my ear and then…

The world explodes.

* * *

><p>The ground shakes as if the world were splittin in two. Daryl's eardrums pop, his bones grind together, and there's this searin <em>heat <em>that spreads over them like they've stepped into a volcano. Daryl curls in tighter around the kid beneath him and waits out the initial explosion. Debris rain down heavily, striking the sandbag draped across his back, his exposed legs and feet. He grits his teeth at the pain and rides it out.

When it's over, he shoves the sandbag off of him, looks back and sees a giant fireball where the CDC used to stand. The bright flames and heat sting his eyes and he ducks his head. Audrey's hair is the first thing to draw his gaze. Dark and unruly, it spreads across the green grass like a stain. It doesn't move and for an instant, Daryl's afraid he had crushed her.

But then she coughs and groans, rolls over and blinks up hazily at him. She's alive and Daryl wants to laugh. "Come on kid," he mutters to her, slips his arms underneath her and picks her up again. She squirms and tries to protest, but he starts to run as walkers begin to approach and she quiets down. He passes the RV on the way to his truck and Chinaman is standin in the door, lookin at him with wide, wet eyes and Daryl averts his gaze cuz he doesn't want to see the gratitude in them. He didn't do it for the chink; hell he didn't even really do it for the kid. He did it for himself cuz he's a Dixon and he's a selfish bastard.

They get to his truck and he dumps her inside, pulls her swords and his crossbow off as he runs to the driver's door and throws those in the bed beside Merle's bike. He's pantin his lungs out when he slams the key into the ignition and starts her up. His arms ache and his legs feel like jello. There are burns along his calves and bruises along his spine where debris had fallen and shoved his crossbow down hard. He feels like death…but he's fuckin alive.

Turnin to his right, he looks the kid over. She's sittin there wide-eyed, starin at the inferno before them, face bathed in orange light. She's pantin too, sweat on her brow and blood along her lip and temple. Daryl reaches out without thinkin and wipes away the blood on her cheek, feels the liquid slick and warm on the pad of his thumb.

Audrey clicks her eyes to him and stares. She doesn't say a word; he doesn't either. They just stare at each other until the other cars start to pull away and he has to follow suit. He tears his eyes away and jerks the truck into drive, presses on the clutch and lurches forward. He follows Walsh's Jeep closely and doesn't look back at the burnin CDC.

And he doesn't make it half a mile before Audrey is pressin tight into his side and just _breathin, _head against his shoulder and legs drawn up close. He doesn't say anythin and neither does she. But Daryl blames it on the adrenaline when he shifts and drapes his arm across the back of the seat, his fingers sometimes brushin against the kid's exposed shoulder. He blames it on the endorphins and tries not to remember the sickenin _fear _he felt when he thought he was gonna lose her.

The CDC burns to nothin in his rearview, a plume of black smoke risin to the sky, foolish hopes and dreams comin to ashes and cinders in the early Georgia morning.

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><p><strong>(1) In Shakespeare's play <strong>_**Macbeth, **_**Lady Macbeth goes mad after she and her husband murder King Duncan. In her delusions, she keeps seeing her hands coated in the king's blood and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't wash it off.**

**(2) Norman Reedus (who plays Daryl) has a tattoo in the same spot. His tattoo says **_**Norman, **_**in memory of his late father who he was named after. I thought I'd change it a bit to fit my story of Daryl's background. :)**

**(3) Fire and Ice by Robert Frost**

**(4) God's Wheel by Shel Silverstein**

**(5) Russian pronunciations for "sister". The Russian spelling is сестра.**

**A/N: And there ya go. More angst, more fluff ( a first) and some more insight into Audrey's past. What did you guys think? :) I thought writing drunk Audrey was a bit of a challenge so I hope that came out ok :/**

**Again. So sorry about the wait and if you want you can totally bash me in a PM or something x( Still thank you guys for reading and reviewing! Even the guest readers, for which I have a few responses: **

**Kate**: I can't believe you read his story for 7 plus hours :O Omg thank you so much! That's a compliment in and of itself! I'm so glad you think the characters are in character and love that you find Audrey so fantastic :) Also really happy you were moved by the Audrey/Jim scene and I'm sorry the update took so long but I hope this super long chap made up for it!

**Gloria: **Happy that you're loving the story and I don't think I screamed so much as I did in the finale!

**Amanda: **Thanks for the compliment! :D And yeah season 3 is a freaking roller coaster!

**Jofrench22: **Gah! You make me blush! If you think it's perfect that makes my year ^_^ You were correct in your assumption of Audrey trying to stay and I hope Daryl's rescue was up to par with your expectations ;) Audrey didn't really rebecome friends with Glenn. I actually think I made the situation worse with unrequited feelings! Sorry D: But I cried when Lori died and i didnt even like her that much! This show messes with my emotions!

** : **Does a belated christmas/new year's/norman's birthday present worK? :/ Sorry about the wait! Thank you for reading!

**Sosh: **Eeek! Thank you for saying that and hope you review after this update! ^^

**Anna: **Thank you for saying I'm a good writer. You don't know how happy that makes me ^^ I try!

**Jenner: **Hmm...i saw your name and was like "Doctor? O.O" haha but thanks for reading and happy to be of service ^^ To answer your question I'm a Texas girl :) Born and raised but not a hick. I live in a big city ;) My profile says more about me! But thanks for reviewing and hope to hear from you again!

**That's it for now! :) Thank you guys so much! I love you, happy belated holidays and new year!**

**Until next time!**

**~Shadows**


	26. There Should Be Just One Safe Place

**I know what your first thought is: "Whoa! She's not dead!?" and your second is probably "Wow! I'm gonna kill her!" **

**T_T I'm really sorry how long this took. Life has just been kicking my ass left and right. Idk why i thought taking a lot of hours and challenging courses was a good idea of college. It wasn't.**

**But here it is. Two months over due. The start of Season 2 in my version of TWD. I want to thank you guys for sticking with me through all of this and I hope you stay for Audrey's story for chapters to come :)**

**Without further ado, Chapter 26!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC and her specific plot line. I make no profit from this.**

**Warnings: language, mentions of gore and thoughts of suicide**

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><p><strong>Chapter 26: There Should Be Just One Safe Place<strong>

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><p>We drive in circles for God knows how long. Daryl doesn't say a word the entire time and I can't find it in me to do anything more than just <em>breathe.<em>

It doesn't feel real. It's like some horrible nightmare, discordant and chaotic in my head and I can't make sense of anything. I grasp at smoky images, errant thoughts.

The CDC and Jenner, explosions and Jacqui and _that should have been me. _

It **always **should be me but it never, _ever _is. I always come out of it in the end. There was a time I used to think of it as a blessing. Now, I know it's a curse. _I can never die. __**I don't deserve it. **_My head hurts and my eyes water and my ears continue to ring with the vibrations of two lives snuffed out and the destruction of yet another pipe dream. I rub at my face, try to scrub away the pain, and my fingers come away wet. Looking down, I see my skin streaked in ash and sweat and blood. It makes me remember Dalton: the fires, the chaos and running. I curl my fingers into a fist and close my eyes against the memories in my mind.

_I'm still alive sensei, _I think. _I'm enduring. _

_If only just for you._

Daryl suddenly coughs and the motion jars me. I turn to look at him and realize how close I am to the hunter, pressed tight from knee to shoulder. From this distance, mere inches, I can see the muscles clenched tight in Daryl's jaw, can see how his cheeks have hollowed since we met, can see the sweat on his temples and the blood drying on his neck. The red liquid makes me frown and I look for injuries. When I can't find any, I realize the blood must be mine.

"Take a picture kid. It'll last longer."

His voice, after so much silence, is like a gunshot. I jump and my eyes flash to his but he's staring resolutely forward, gaze locked onto Shane's bumper twenty feed ahead of us. It's the first thing he's said to me since he pulled me from the CDC, since he yanked me off my suicidal ledge, and I don't really know how to respond.

Especially when I'm this close to him.

And especially when his fingers keep brushing my opposite shoulder, arm stretched out across the back of the seat.

What do you say to the man who saved your life? _Again. _

What do you say to the man who wouldn't let you die because you're his only friend?

_Thank you. _

_I'm sorry. _

"Do you know where my swords are?"

I blink because that's not what I wanted to say; I bite my lip because I have no idea what I wanted to say anyway.

Daryl glances at me out of the corner of his eye. The blue of them makes me squirm because they look like Mom's eyes, Irina's, Amy's, and they're swimming with fatigue and disappointment. "In the back," he grunts, jerking his chin over his shoulder. "Yer pack too."

"Oh," I say. Then I turn to look out the window—_coward—_because all of these things are battering against the back of my teeth—_thank you, I'm sorry, why did you save me, friends, friends, friends?—_and it's giving me a headache, making me sick. I can't handle all of this, **any **of this, all these twists and turns. Two days ago, Amy was alive; the quarry was our home. Yesterday, I killed Jim; yesterday, the CDC was supposed to be the Promised Land. Now Amy's dead and Jim's still dead and Jacqui's joined their numbers and all we've left in our wake is _ashes, ashes, dead bodies. _

If I had the energy left, I could cry for years and never stop. But I'm so empty now, so tired, and instead I listlessly stare at the passing buildings, the city of ghosts. I don't know what to feel. Relief? Anger? Sadness? I try to grasp at one and it slides through my fingers; I fumble for another and it's like smoke through my palms. The silence is so heavy and I can't help but break it because if I don't, all I can hear is Jacqui's voice in my head, Amy's laughter, Jim's last words, all these ghosts that won't let me go.

"Where are we going?"

Daryl grunts and shrugs his shoulders. "Dunno. Grimes has been drivin in circles for a while." He pauses and his jaw works as if he's chewing on his next words, contemplating them. "We don't have much fuel left," he says at length. "He'll have to think of a plan B soon."

I hum in acknowledgement and look out the windshield, watch the Winnebago bounce a few car lengths ahead of us. I think how hard it must be for Rick, how he's suddenly the leader of our little group with the weight of a failing world resting on his shoulders. I don't envy him.

Minutes bleed into each other as we continue driving. We pass houses and business, schools and cars abandoned in the middle of the road. Scattered walkers glance at us as we drive, their rheumy hungry eyes boring as they shamble toward us even after we're long gone. It's the middle of the afternoon, the sun slowly drooping towards the horizon, when Daryl speaks up again.

"Well shit." He's chewing on his thumb again and I have half the urge to pull this hand away. "Seems Grimes ain't so stupid after all."

"What do you mean?" Brow furrowed, I look between Daryl and the brake lights suddenly before us, Rick pulling off to the side of a building and Shane quickly following.

"We got some friends in there," he explains, pointing with the hand he was just chewing on. Blood beads on his thumb and I stare at it for a moment before looking at the building looming over us. It's old, falling apart, with graffiti and boarded up windows. It looks like any other abandoned building we've passed so far.

"Friends?" I ask. How do they know anyone in the city? The only time they went to Atlanta was…

"Met them the last time we were here." Daryl's voice suddenly has a subdued quality to it, hoarse and quiet, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. _The last time…when I lost my brother. _I feel guilty all over again even if it doesn't make sense. "A few spics holed up with some old folks. Gave them some weapons, ammo. They should take us in for the night."

"And tomorrow?" The question comes out unbidden. Daryl doesn't answer. I shake away the thought because tomorrow is a long time from now. Days are measured in breaths and each inhale is an eon. I have to stop thinking in terms of a bygone world. There is no future. There is no past. There's only now and I'm lucky to have that.

In front of us, people begin to pile out of their cars. Their postures are wary, weary, and their eyes are wide, on high alert. I can almost hear racing hearts from here. "Come on kid," Daryl mumbles to me. I nod and open my door, go to jump out, but the sight of my bare feet stops me. Daryl sighs at my back and grunts something. He slams his door, there's a shuffle and a clang from the bed of the truck, and then he's rounding my side, his crossbow in one hand, my swords in the other, and hooked onto his fingers are my pair of brand new sneakers. The ones I got in the department store just a few days ago.

The ones Jacqui found me.

I stare at the black shoes and something threatens to crack in my chest but Daryl doesn't let me dwell on it long enough. He thrusts his hand out, dumps the shoes in my lap and leans my swords against the doorframe. "Hurry up," he tells me and then he turns around, hefts his crossbow up, keeps watch. I gaze at his back for a moment, the damp fabric of his sleeveless shirt, the dirt on his shoulders and upper arms, the burns in the calves of his jeans from where fiery debris from the CDC had rained down upon him. He doesn't move from in front of me, is crowded in so close I could reach out and touch the hint of the tattoo, peaking out along his shoulder. His words come back to me—_What the fuck bout me? Ya goddamn come into my life and fuck it up and won't take no for a fuckin answer. Ya try and try and try to be my "friend" for god knows why and ya whittle me down to nothin. Ya make it so I have no other choice, get under my fuckin skin, and now yer just gonna check out. __Fuck you. __I ain't havin it—_and I think about how he pulled me from the CDC, how he carried me across the lawn, how he threw himself on top of me when everything blew sky high.

I pull on my shoes, biting my lip at the flare of pain in ankle and wrist, and try not to let myself think, let myself hope.

When I'm ready, Daryl nudges me forward, walks in my shadow. The others stare at us as we approach and they're all questioning eyes and pity. I avoid Glenn's stare, Carl's frightened expression, and keep my head down as I follow Rick and Shane into an abandoned courtyard full of high grass and broken things. As we walk, no one speaks; the only sound to be heard is the crunch of gravel beneath our feet and the stirrings of air as we breathe. Something doesn't feel right though and before I know it, my katana is in hand. I've learned not to second-guess things.

Ahead of me, the men fan out, weapons held high. Glenn turns to Rick suddenly, asks, "Where are the lookouts?" His voice jumps an octave and his eyes, even from this distance, are wide with worry. Rick doesn't respond but, when we round the next corner, walking deeper into the complex of what used to be a retirement home, we find the answer; we find the lookouts.

"Son of a bitch!" Shane snarls. He stalks like a cornered, wild animal, his shotgun jerking about with his finger on the trigger. The walkers, consumed with their meals, don't even look up. The crunch of bone and smell of gore permeates the air and I feel the hairs along the nape of my neck stand on end, my heart kick-starting into a race. Fear trickles through me, quickly growing, and I realize there is no checking out for me this time. I am afraid and I feel every facet of it.

Behind me, Carl and Sophia begin to cry. I turn to see Lori and Carol pull them close, their thin arms wrapped tight around their children as they gaze with abject horror on the scene of carnage before us. Without thinking, I step in front of them, put myself between them and the walkers. And not a moment too soon.

A walker ten yards away picks her head up at the smell of new meat. Her face is rotten off, her teeth bare and glinting red in the setting sun. Everyone starts to shift uneasily, muttered curses and fearful whimpers. We draw in close to one another, the men in front with guns and crossbows and crowbars at the ready. Rick starts to pant and it's an angry noise, his shoulders pulled high and tight. More walkers begin to notice us, leave their half gnawed on snacks to stumble in our direction. Rick pulls the hammer back on his revolver.

"To hell with the noise," he growls. He starts forward and the first gunshot rings out loud and clear. The retort jars down into my bones. I think about the department store, half of Atlanta beating through the doors. It's a replay; this is all a mistake.

I stumble forward and yank Glenn's arms down from where they're taking aim. His shotgun round goes wild, hits a walker in the chest and it's only down for a moment before its up and shuffling again. Glenn turns to me with wide eyes. "Save your ammo," I grit out before half running to Dale, grabbing his arm and relaying the same message. The old man stares at me, tries to argue, but I'm moving again, hitting T-Dog to get his attention, elbowing Daryl to make him look at me and drop a gun I didn't know he had.

"Save the bullets! It's too much noise and we'll need them later!"

Rick and Shane keep firing, yards ahead of me, closer to the walkers. There's about seven of them left and Rick curses when his revolver runs out of ammo. He jams his hands in his pocket, searches for bullets, just as Shane's shotgun clicks empty too. Daryl curses at my back and, a second later, an arrow flies out, nailing a walker in between the eyes. Five left.

"Shoot goddamn it!" Shane shouts as he wrestles with his gun. His eyes are wild, afraid, and he looks back to make sure Lori and Carl, who are huddled close to the ground are still safe. The men look at him, look at me, but I don't give them a chance to follow the order before I'm limping forward, into their line of fire. Glenn screams my name, followed by others I can't identify, but I ignore them as the first walker stumbles into arm's reach. I bite my lip and haul the katana up, lash out as the geek—a tall, broad, _usedtobe _man—lunges for me.

The blade catches him in the temple and I throw my weight behind my arm, steel sliding through bone and tissue and brain. I teeter when the body falls, scalp flying in a different direction, but don't falter when the four others rush towards me, excited. I'm not as proficient with my left hand as I am with my right but I make do, cutting and slashing through two more geeks before two well placed arrows take out the remaining threats. Daryl catches my eye when I turn around but I don't have the time to decipher his expression before Rick is moving, yelling, grabbing my arm and making me follow as he runs for the building ahead of us. My wrist flares in protest, my ankle in agony, but I point my gore slicked sword down and do my best to run when not so distant moans echo at my back.

We find no other walkers as we enter the former retirement center. Rick, Shane and Daryl go in first, followed by the women, children, me, Glenn with Dale and T-Dog bringing up the rear. The stench of rotting bodies is so strong my stomach lurches and, beside me, Andrea gags.

"God," she gasps, wrist pressed to her mouth. "What…what is this? I…I thought they said…"

She trails off as we move into the main hallway, as we see the legs sticking out from doorways and peeking around corners, as we see the blood splashed against the walls and the carpets. People jerk to a halt, fumble. Carol claps a hand over her mouth and her pale blue eyes swim with tears. The men push forward down the hallway, looking into rooms, guns at the ready, but at my side Sophia begins to cry, loud and anguished, as she sees the bodies strewn across the room at out right. Her hands come up to cover her face and Carol wraps her arms around her even as silent tears trickle down her own thin face.

A few feet ahead of me, Daryl snaps his head around, crossbow locked and loaded. "Put a sock in it," he snarls quietly at Sophia. His voice is sharp and harsh. There's fear in his eyes. The little girl whimpers and pushes closer to her mother who stutters out for Daryl to leave her alone. But the hunter is on edge, we all our, strung tight and full of adrenaline, so he doesn't miss a beat as he barks back, "Either shut her up or I _will!" _

Lori comes out of nowhere, shoves at Daryl till he stumbles away. "Back the hell off," she spits, face twisted with rage and disgust. "And I mean **now.**"

Daryl looks like he wants to retort, jaw working, but I slip past Lori and put a hand on his arm, jerk my chin down the hall. "Let's check out the rooms down the hall," I whisper. He snaps his blue eyes down to mine and they're narrowed, heated, but he doesn't say a word as he stalks away, doing just as I had suggested. I go to follow him but a hand at my elbow stops me. I turn to see Shane boring into me with frantic eyes.

"Rick and I'll check out the building," he tells me. "Stay here and help them barricade the door. Keep an eye out." His tone leaves no more for discussion so I concede with a nod and walk back to where Andrea and T-Dog are dragging cabinets and tables from the rooms around us to pile up against the doors.

"Can I help?" I ask quietly but T-Dog just shakes his head.

"We got it just…just make sure nothing comes and bites us in the ass."

I nod and step away, look back down the hallway and watch for movement. Carl and Sophia sit on the ground near my feet, knees drawn tight to their chests. Sophia continues to cry quietly and Carl holds her hand, shushes her with soothing words even as his own big blue eyes look around with such fear it would break my heart if I had much left to break. I reach out without thinking and pet the top of Sophia's head, ruffle Carl's hair. The fractured ends of my wrist bone grind together, white hot pain, but I ignore it as Sophia leans into me, as Carl stares up at me with such trust that I _ache _because I am not someone he should be looking at like that.

I'm the furthest thing from someone he should look up to.

"Shit!"

Glenn's panicked voice pulls me from my dark musings and I snap my head up to see the others crouching low behind the barricade, the low, guttural snarls of a lone walker wafting through the gaps. I curse under my breath and drop into a crouch, hovering over Carl and Sophia, who has begun to whimper more intensely. My hands are slick with cold sweat and the katana shifts in my hand. The others freeze near the door as the walker shuffles merely feet away. I turn my head and see Carl put his finger to his lips, mouth to Sophia that it's all right, just to be quiet. The young girl nods and scoots in closer, clings tightly to her friend's hand.

No one breathes for a good minute and the walker shifts in the doorway, considering, searching. It must not sense us, smell us, the stench of rot too strong; it moves on not too long later, not even a snarl to be heard.

Sophia presses into my side, her bird hollow bones, and I absentmindedly press a kiss to her hair before her mother pulls her up and we're running further into the building, tired and beaten down and still _breathingalive. _

The men have gathered in what looks to have been an entertainment or day room of sorts: there are high, long windows, tables scattered across the floor and something akin to a small stage near the front. A crucifix hangs above the stage and I try not to look at it. Bodies litter the floor, and blood and debris, but everyone silently agrees to ignore them or accept them or some combination of the two. I lean against a table and feel sick as I stare at an old woman, a bullet hole punched straight through her forehead.

"Upstairs is our best bet," Rick says to the others crowded around him. I'm half way across the room but his voice carries. "We've cleared a few rooms, we can barricade those if we have to." He looks around at all of us, dirty and sweaty and eyes so tired he looks thirty years older. "We'll be alright," he lies with conviction but not many believe falsities like they used to.

Oddly enough, it's Carol that calls Rick out. "You mean it this time? Or are you lying to us like all the times b…before?" Her voice breaks on the last word and she pulls Sophia, who sits in her lap, close, presses her cheek into the back of her daughter's head. Lori reprimands her but the scolding lacks any passion, just a weary act of going through the motions of supportive wife.

"What the hell happened?" Glenn asks a minute later, voicing the question we've all been asking ourselves. I look around at the carnage and it's no different from the quarry, from Dalton, and all I can think of is _reality happened. _Cold, hard reality.

"What do you think?" Andrea replies. "They got overrun."

_Overrun. _Such an uncommon word before the world ended. It spoke of war and disease, battles and survival. Here, in the Western world, we had been sheltered from all of that for centuries. Perhaps that's why, in the end, we fell so quickly.

We were too soft.

From a few feet away, Daryl scoffs. He's pacing around the room, like a caged animal, and it's the first time I've heard him make a noise since the incident with Sophia.

Andrea snaps her head around and even though I can only see her profile, her expression looks disdainful. "Something to say?" she spits.

The hunter doesn't even flinch at her tone; in fact, he's practically riled. "Yeah, how bout _'observant'_?" he retorts. I frown at him and wonder what he means.

"'Observant'. Big word from a guy like you. Three whole syllables. Congratulations."

Someone snorts and I find myself feeling angry, a hot ember in my chest. Daryl doesn't let the insult faze him.

"Walkers didn't do this," he grunts out. All eyes are suddenly on him and he drops his eyes with a scowl, gestures roughly around the room. "Geeks didn't show up till _all _this went down. Somebody attacked this place, killed all these people, took whatever they wanted. They're all shot in the head execution style, not gnawed on by geeks. Ya'll are worried bout walkers," he scoffs. He lifts his eyes up and clicks them around the room, they're blue hue hard and challenging. "I'd be _much _more worried bout the people who came and did all this."

The silence that follows is heavy with his implications. Andrea scowls and her cheeks flush red. Daryl bares his teeth.

"Get a dictionary," he sneers at her. "Look it up. _Observant." _He shoulders his crossbow and stalks out of the room. Despite the gravity of the situation, the taste of the CDC's ashes still heavy on my tongue, I can't help but smile at his retreating back, even if it's the barest upturn of lips.

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><p>They scout the place for nearly half an hour but there's nothin left. No people, no walkers, and definitely no food. Daryl finds one can of garbanzo beans rolled under a flipped over table in the kitchen. The serving size says two. They're gonna make it spread to twelve.<p>

Chinaman heads back to the others early; he mutters some excuse to Grimes and the cop lets him go while he tells Walsh and Daryl to help him check out one last place. Daryl scoffs and rolls his eyes, tells the cop they ain't gonna find anythin, but the other man ignores him. They try the basement of the buildin, where the lead spic had said they kept some emergency rations. Those are gone too when they arrive.

The lead spic isn't though, _Guillermo_. He's still there.

Daryl puts a bolt between his eyes when he lunges for Walsh, bared teeth and a gapin throat. Whoever hit this place must have run out of bullets by the time they got down here, probably draggin _Guillermo _around for directions or some shit. They didn't have the common courtesy to bash his head in either. Daryl stares at the body as they leave, notices the rosary the man had worn around his neck was wrapped around his wrist and woven through his fingers. Daryl wonders if the man had prayed, at the end. Doesn't seem to have made much of a difference.

They head back to the others with their can of garbanzo beans and tidings of great fuckin joy. Grimes and Walsh head straight into the staff room that they had herded the women, children and old man into. The nigger is standin watch at the door and shares a look with the two officers. He drops his eyes and rubs his bald head when he sees the truth in their gazes and Daryl wants to snap _what the fuck ya think was gonna happen? _He doesn't though. He just grits his teeth and turns on heel and wonders if he can find a room that's free of bodies and the stench of death where he can just sit and _breathe. _

He has no such luck, goddamn shocker there. He barely makes it down the hall before voices draw his attention and he finds himself standin outside an ajar door—the door of the chapel and ain't that fuckin ironic—listenin to the hushed conversation of Chinaman and the kid.

"What the hell was that?"

"What was what Glenn?"

The kid's voice is quiet and subdued; she sounds resigned, exhausted. The chink on the other hand is fired up and his pitch keeps risin with every word. Daryl doesn't have to try very hard to hear what he has to say.

"D…don't give me that! Back at the CDC! What were…were you just going to stay there?! You were just going to k…_ill _yourself!?" His voice cracks on the word _kill, _goes shrill enough that Daryl winces from where he's leanin against the doorframe. The hunter remembers the chink's expression, from when he carried Audrey out of the CDC, and he wonders if Chinaman's wearin the same one.

A beat of silence follows his question and Daryl presses in closer towards the crack in the door. He hears a soft sigh, knows it's the kid, and waits for the inevitable response.

"What do you want me to say Glenn?" she replies at length.

Chinaman makes some kind of strangled noise. "But _why?_"

Audrey actually laughs at that and Daryl frowns when he recognizes the bitter, hysterical tinge to it. Was the kid goin under again? Fuck.

"_Why? _Glenn! I'm not really sure if you've noticed but these past few days have been fucking hell on **earth.**" There's the sound of shifting furniture, the creak of floorboards as the kid moves, and suddenly Daryl can see her in the small crack the ajar door allows. She doesn't look any different from when he last saw her, half an hour ago. She's still in the same shorts, the same guy's tank top with black sneakers on her feet and bandages covering much of her revealed skin. Maybe there's some more dirt than he remembered, more sweat, but other than that…she's the same.

So why does the kid's face look like she's aged ten years?

It's the eyes Daryl decides when the kid looks up and back at Chinaman. It's those goddamn eyes of hers.

"Amy _**died**_," the kid continues and Daryl has to backtrack to remember the line of conversation. "Died, Glenn. Right in my arms. The quarry was destroyed. I look, and feel, like I've been put through a goddamn blender; every inch of me hurts. And then…and then Jim died too and there was nothing at the CDC but another dead end…" She trails off, looks down at her feet, at a _body _Daryl realizes, some little old man with a bullet hole through his temple. "I was just tired," she finishes in a whisper.

The sound of more shifting and then the chink is right in front of Audrey, nearly standin on her toes. Daryl frowns when irritation burns through him and he doesn't know why. Chinaman breathes and the sound is heavy in the otherwise silent room. The kid won't bring her head up, can't bring herself to look at him.

"But what about me?" he whispers and it's so close to what Daryl himself had said, minus a few expletives, that the hunter flushes and fidgets in discomfort. Audrey sighs again and Daryl sees her fist clench at her side. It's only for a moment and then it releases, her fingers finding their way into her hair as she yanks at the tangled ends.

"Look…I'm sorry Glenn. All right? It was a selfish decision and I know that now. I had a moment of weakness and I'm sorry I hurt you but I don't know what else to say."

Chinaman stares at her, his eyes rovin over the planes of her face in a way that looks like he's searchin for a lie in the kid's features. His thin lips purse and his brow creases harshly. "Just…just answer me one question," he says. Daryl thinks there's somethin weird to his tone but he can't place it.

Audrey blinks and looks up. She looks reluctant but manages a nod. "Okay."

"What made you come out of that building?"

The kid's eyes go wide and her mouth falls open slightly, the split skin on her lip stretching almost to the point of bleeding again. Daryl can't see her eyes clearly from this distance, can't see their color in the gloom, but he can imagine the surprise in them, the intensity. There's a sudden poundin sound and the hunter looks around, hands tight on his crossbow, before he realizes he's alone and the sound is in his head.

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

It's his heartbeat.

He grits his teeth and tries to tear himself away. He doesn't want to hear what the kid has to say and he doesn't want to remember the CDC cuz what he said…what he said…

"_What the fuck bout me?"_

Fuck. Just cuz he decided the kid was his f…_friend _did he immediately become a pussy? Jesus fucking Christ. He meant what he said before. The kid had really fucked him up and whittled him down. He knows he should be pissed, tries to be, succeeds a bit…but not as much as he should. He wonders if that's some shit entailed with friendship. He doesn't know if he likes it.

Suddenly, a laugh echoes through the dark hallway. It's light and dry but Daryl recognizes it, pictures blue lakes and green woods in his head. He wrenches himself from his thoughts and looks back into the chapel to see Audrey bent over slightly with a hand pressed to her mouth. That laugh continues to spill out between her fingers and the chink is gazin at her like he thinks she's lost her mind. Daryl wonders if he's missed part of the conversation or if the kid's really gone off the deep end.

"Wh…what's so funny?" Chinaman stutters out.

Audrey shakes her head, the uneven, tangled strands of her hair whipping back and forth. "Nothing," she says but she continues to chuckle. She takes a second to compose herself and clears her throat. "Nothing. I just…I was just thinking you could say I had some sense knocked into me."

Daryl furrows his brow and the chink asks his question. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Well, I mean…it's nothing monumental."

"Whatever it was…it saved your life Dree. How is that _not _monumental?"

The kid sighs and averts her gaze away from the chink, away from the door so Daryl can't see her face. She reaches up and cups the back of her neck, edges around the bruises that Merle left behind. "Because it was something I already knew, deep down. It just took Daryl hitting me over the head with it for me to remember."

Chinaman stills. "Daryl?" Something about his voice is off and the hunter scowls.

Audrey glances back over at the other boy and nods. "Mmhmm. He uh…he talked me out of the stupid decision I was making. Well…maybe _talked _isn't the right word but we got the same result." She smiles and gestures awkwardly at herself. The chink is silent for a moment, takin in Audrey's words.

"I…I saw him carry you out," he murmurs. "But I didn't know…" He exhales and reaches up to rub at his brow, knuckles bumpin into the bill of his hat. "He saved my life too you know?"

Daryl freezes on the other side of the door and, not for the first time, he wishes he hadn't stopped to eavesdrop.

The kid looks surprised, even in the gloom. "Really? When? Where?" she asks curiously.

Chinaman shrugs and then gestures around the room. "Here. The last time we were in the city. We were looking for…" He pauses and Daryl feels something curl in his gut, irrationally thinkin that he's gonna punch the chink if he so much as mutters Merle's name. "We went back for some guns Rick left behind," he says instead and a fraction of the tension bleeds out of Daryl. "But some other guys had beat us to it. We fought over them and in the struggle…I kinda got kidnapped."

"_What?!"_

"It was a misunderstanding," the chink stutters out, wavin his hands frantically. "Daryl ran into one of their men and then the others beat Daryl up…I got yanked into a car and Daryl I think shot some guy in the ass with his crossbow…it was a mess. It turns out the guys weren't so bad though! They…" He trails off and looks over at the body of an old man, crumpled in the corner. Daryl refuses to feel anythin, refuses to think bout all these people that were alive a few days ago. "They were the ones who stayed here; they just wanted weapons to protect themselves and the elderly they had." He sighs and shakes his head, tears his gaze from the floor and locks his eyes on Audrey.

"But Daryl and the others didn't know that at first," he continues. "They…they came back to rescue me. And now Daryl's saved you too." He laughs and rubs at the back of his neck. "Guess I have to thank him again huh?" For some reason, there's something about his voice, almost a bitterness, that makes the hunter think he'd rather do anything but.

The kid fidgets and then suddenly frowns. Her eyebrows furrow into a drastic V; her lips thin out into a white line. "Now that I think about it," she muses. "I haven't even thanked him. God. What kind of friend does that make me?"

Chinaman's eyebrows rise. "So you guys are friends now?"

Audrey worries her lip and there's this look on her face that Daryl doesn't like and he knows she's bout to say some shit that he might not, maybe does, _can't really deal with, _hearin right now. He moves without thinkin, kicks at the doorframe with the toe of his boot. The wood gives slightly under the impact and the chink and Audrey jump nearly five feet in the air. The kid whirls without a pause, hand already goin for the sword over her right shoulder and Daryl pauses enough to be impressed with her dexterity.

"Fuck Daryl," the kid curses when he pushes open the door. Her face is irritated now, no longer wearin that weird, vulnerable expression she had been. "I nearly cut your head off! Stop sneaking up on people!"

Now that he's closer, Daryl can see the gleam in her green eyes, sparks of anger like flecks of light. He can't help the smirk that threatens to pull at his lips, so misplaced in this tomb full of blood and bodies. But the kid has some life in her again, somethin of that spitfire he shot in the woods. Seems she wasn't that far gone.

"Well quit sneakin off then," he retorts. "Everyone's lookin for ya."

Which is a lie but the kid doesn't know that and everyone _should_ be lookin for her anyway. It's not like she almost killed herself a few hours ago, not like the people that offed this place might still be lurkin around. Daryl scowls to himself when he thinks that this group's got no survival instinct. They're all a bunch of stupid city folk and Daryl's got to keep an eye out for himself and the kid cuz ain't no one else around to.

Audrey winces with what looks like guilt. "Shit really? I didn't mean to make people worry. Glenn and I were just looking around."

Daryl rolls his eyes like he could care less and jerks his head to gesture over his shoulder. "Whatever kid let's just get goin. You too Chinaman. It's gettin dark." The kid nods and turns to leave the room, tuggin on the chink's sleeve to get him to follow. Daryl steps aside to let her pass but she bumps into him anyway. It's not until she presses him into the rotten wood of the door, the bone of her shoulder sharp against his sternum, that he realizes she's done it on purpose.

"That's for scaring the shit out of me," she says and there's enough force behind her arm to bruise. He scowls at her but there's that glint in her eye, half tease and half ire, that has him subsidin as she slips past him and into the hallway, Chinaman hot on her heels. The hunter thinks he sees somethin in the chink's slanted eyes but he can't be sure so he just follows them back to the staff room and the others who were huddled around one can of garbanzo beans and a dwindlin sense of hope.

* * *

><p>The men sleep in shifts and there are always two of them on watch but no one sleeps much. We try, all lying on the floor of this dilapidated staff room, and some slip into an uneasy doze, like Dale and Andrea, but the majority of us just stare into the semi-darkness of the room. It's this goddamn <em>place. <em>The stench of rotting bodies puts everyone on edge and the enclosed spaces offer more paranoia than security. The reassurances and feelings of safety the CDC offered are long gone now, blown sky high and nothing but ash. We're ten times worse off now than we were at the quarry, scarce food giving way to _none at all, _and what's more, everyone knows it. There is no hiding the blood smears on the walls, there is no magically producing food where there is none to have. Everyone knows where we stand now.

Even the kids.

In the far corner of the room, Carl and Sophia huddle pale and frightened with their mothers, their pale colored eyes wide and darting from place to place. Sophia still has white tear tracks cutting through the grime on her cheeks. Carl is pressed into her side, murmuring something to her, probably trying to calm her, but even he is shaking. They're scared and hungry and tired but Lori and Carol are too busy speaking in hushed whispers to notice. My heart breaks and I lever myself up into a seated position, looking around for my pack.

"I thought I told you to get some goddamn sleep."

The voice is gruff and sounds just as tired as I feel. I look over my shoulder, to the door that's only a foot or so away, and Daryl glares back at me, his spine resting against the doorframe. There are bags under his blue eyes and if I reached out only just, I could feel the burns on the jeans of his sprawled out legs. The hunter looks uncharacteristically pale in the light of a lone emergency lantern but I right it off as exhaustion.

"Can't seem to manage it," I whisper back to him. And I've _tried, _really I have. Ever since my offer to help keep watch was turned down flat, by more than one person, which was slightly irritating, I resigned myself to getting some rest and staked out a spot near the door, just in case something did happen. But no matter how hard I tried, how tired I was, how many times Daryl snapped at me to _quit fuckin fidgetin and sleep, _I can't do it.

There are a million reasons as to why that is, this huge tangled mess in my head, but I don't want to dissect it right now. Not here, in this sordid tomb with the CDC's ashes still clinging to my skin.

So, instead of lying here listless and useless, maybe I can do something productive.

My pack rests near my feet, shoved under a rickety table. I lean towards it, wincing when my bruised ribs protest, and dig through it blindly.

"The hell ya lookin for?" Daryl hisses at my back. His voice is low and irritated but it doesn't carry very much, even in this small room. When I look over at the others, none of them are looking our way.

Finding what I was looking for, I sit back with a grunt and push the blankets off my legs. Daryl is still scowling at me, I can feel it on the nape of my neck, and I sigh as I turn to look at him. "I can't sleep so I thought I might as well help out," I murmur. The scowl that I had known was twisting his lips deepens as I watch.

"Don't need yer help on watch kid. Fuckin Walsh already said—"

"I know what Shane said. And I'm not talking about watch. Look, I'm fine ok. Just…go back to whatever you were doing."

Daryl narrows his eyes at me and I can just make out their hard, blue hue. His teeth grind sharply, a hair-raising noise, and he looks like he might just object. Which is something I'm still relatively confused about. Ever since…Daryl hasn't left me alone since the CDC. Granted, that's only been a few hours but I'm used to Daryl tolerating me for a short amount of time and then staying away for twice as long. It's almost like he's…_hovering _and I don't know what to make of that. Is it because…does he think…are we really **friends** now? His words from the CDC swirl a drain in my head, like a broken record, over and over and _what the fuck bout me? _

I don't know how to answer him; I don't know what the hell he _wants. _Every time I try to think about it my head aches and all the bruises Merle left behind throb and I feel guilty though I shouldn't and grateful but not because I'm alive and that might not be a good thing and…I close my eyes and take a deep breath. No. I'm not going around in these circles again. I have other things to do.

Flashing Daryl a small smile, and not waiting around to see if he has a response, I get up and slowly pick my way across the dark room. As I draw nearer, Lori and Carol cease their frantic whispers and their children perk up a bit, eyes wide and curious. I stop about a foot or two away and drop into a squat, ignoring the white-hot pain in my ankle.

"Hey guys," I whisper to Carl and Sophia. "Looks like you can't sleep either huh?"

The kids shake their heads and I smile softly in reply. "I know it's kind of lame but do you want me to read you something to help you fall asleep. It used to help me a lot when I was younger."

Well, those were stolen library books and no one _ever _read to me, not until I was almost a preteen. I didn't have that kind of childhood but Carl and Sophia don't need to know that.

Sophia blinks and looks up at her mom in question and Carl asks Lori, "Can she mom?" I meet Lori's eyes over Carl's head and the woman looks worn and weary, like she's aged ten years. Carol looks little better.

"Only if it's not a bother to Audrey baby," Lori whispers to her son and I shake my head.

"It's not. I can't sleep either. But if you and Carol want to rest a little, I can read to them over by my sleeping bag."

Lori blinks at me and looks over my shoulder, towards the door. In reality it's only a few feet away, the room really isn't that big, but I can see the apprehension in the mother's eyes.

"We'll only be a few feet away and Shane's right there." I point to the other side of door, and Daryl, where Shane is curled up facing the wall. "And Rick and Daryl are on watch. We'll be fine."

It doesn't take very long for Carol and Lori to relent after that. They're bone tired and if I was offering to let them get some sleep, however fitful and short, they don't have the energy to argue. So after some kisses to the forehead and halfhearted admonishments of not causing me any trouble, the mothers let me lead their children across the room. My sleeping bag is thin and rustles as the three of us sit down, Carl on my right side and Sophia my left, but the blanket I drape across our shoulders is warm and soft. I sit with the wall against my back and my legs stretched out in front of me, bare toes barely brushing against the curve of Glenn's hip. I don't think he's asleep yet but he doesn't move as the kids and I get situated. Maybe he's still mad at me. I don't know anymore and don't have the will to dwell on it.

The lighting is too dim for me to see, the emergency lantern on the other side of the room, so I'm about to dig through my pack again in search of a flashlight when one suddenly lands in my lap. I blink and lift my head, wondering if Carl had brought one from his side of the room, but the boy at my side is looking to our right, his mouth agape. I follow his gaze to find Daryl picking at his nails with the tip of his hunting knife, not even glancing in our direction, but his own backpack is open between his legs. I bite my lip, all those implications and _what about mes _tumbling through my head again, before I pick up the flashlight, a cranking number already charged, and whisper "Thank you" as softly as I can.

Daryl doesn't acknowledge he's heard me but by the way he's pursed his lips in that way he only does when uncomfortable, I think he has.

Turning back to the book in my lap, I click on the flashlight and look over at Sophia with a smile. "So where did I leave off last time?" The girl wiggles closer, her bird hollow bones pressed tight to my side.

"Jonas was just about to meet the Receiver," she whispers, her hazel eyes timidly meeting mine. A frown mars my brow for a moment, I thought we had gotten farther than that, but that's when I remember _Carl _had gotten farther. That was the day Ed had…I look over at the boy beside me and he shrugs as if to say _I don't care. _I remember how, before, he had wanted to wait for Sophia anyway. The boy was just as self-sacrificing as his father.

"Ok," I murmur. "Chapter 10 it is. Could you hold this for me Sophia?" I nudge the flashlight at her and she nods enthusiastically, picking it up in her thin, lithe fingers and holding it just right. "Thank you. Now, what page is it on?"

I flip idly through the book, find the correct page, and start to read. _"'I go in here, Jonas,' Fiona told him when they reached the front door of the House of the Old after parking their bicycles in the designated area." _

Carl and Sophia crowd in close as I continue to tell the tale of Jonas, their bodies warm and alive against me. This dark room we find ourselves in, rank with the stench of death, quietly fades away as Jonas' world envelops us slowly. Soon, there are no walkers; there is no death. There was never any Amy or Jim or Jacqui. The world is a safe if sheltered place, with rules and regulations and far from perfect. But the people feel neither fear nor pain. A baby named Gabriel is cared for and a boy named Jonas comes of age and takes his place in society. I had always thought that _The Giver's_ world was such a dystopia, as the writer had meant it to be, but now…I'm not so sure.

I don't know how long I read for but it's well into the night when I realize that Sophia and Carl have fallen asleep. A while ago, Sophia had slipped down to lay her head in my lap and now she's snoring softly. Carl is still upright against my side but his head has fallen onto my shoulder, his breath fanning across the ridge of my collarbone. I smile at the two of them and quietly shut the book, dog-earing the page for the next time. Sophia stirs, as if she senses I've stopped talking, and I reflexively stroke the top of her head, a tuneless hum vibrating in the back of my throat. She slowly subsides but I keep humming, feeling Carl going even more lax against me, like he's slipping deeper into sleep. I turn my head slowly and brush a kiss against his forehead. He sleeps on and I feel grateful.

Looking out across the room, it seems everyone's succumbed to exhaustion at last. Glenn snores at my feet and Shane mutters something in his sleep, grumbles, and shifts. I look to my right, expecting to find Daryl gone, asleep somewhere with maybe T-Dog in his place, but the hunter is right where I left him. He's fiddling with something in his lap, I can't tell what it is, but he suddenly pauses and snaps his eyes up, blue locking onto my green. I blink; how the _hell _had he known as I was looking at him? We stare at each other in the dim light of the emergency lantern and after a moment Daryl scowls at me. It doesn't look particularly angry, maybe just a little bit annoyed. I don't know what makes me do it but, instead of dropping my gaze or smiling apologetically, I stick my tongue out at the hunter. The surprise on his face is priceless, even if he still looks exhausted, and I end up grinning when he just rolls his eyes. He goes back to fiddling with whatever is in his lap—his knife?—and I lean my head back against the wall, still smiling.

The CDC is still burning behind us; Amy, Jacqui, Jim and a dozen others are still dead. We're on the run with little food and less fuel but…Sophia is dreaming easy in my lap and Carl breathes easy against my neck. The twelve of us are still alive and that's something. As long as we're alive we can keep fighting and it's not ideal and it's going to hurt like hell but…I'm not going to give up. Not when I have so many people depending on me.

Not when I have so many others I don't want to disappoint.

Mom's face drifts through my mind, followed by all the family and friends that I've lost. Guilt hangs heavy in my chest, weighs down my lungs, because I'm here and they're not, but it slowly starts to slip away as my eyes droop and maybe, just maybe, tonight I'll get some dreamless sleep. My head slowly slides to rest against the top of Carl's and, just as I'm pulled into the dark, my Mom's voice whispers in my ear, just as it had nearly ten years ago, the first night she read me to sleep.

_But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,_

_And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—_

_Open to me!_

_For I will show you the places Nobody knows,_

_And, if you like,_

_The perfect places of Sleep. (1)_

* * *

><p>Daryl pretends to busy himself with sharpening his knife, or diggin through his bag, but more often than not he finds himself listenin to the kid as she reads to Grime's brat and the little blonde girl he yelled at earlier. He felt a sting of regret when he thought about the girl's stricken face but he pushes it away. She needed to keep quiet or she was gonna get them all killed. She had to toughen up a bit.<p>

He told this to himself over and over but he still felt guilty. He ignored that too.

The kid though, well she's a lot harder to ignore. Despite the fact that she speaks in whispers, quiet and hushed as everyone else sleeps on, she's still as enthusiastic as every other time Daryl's heard her read; maybe even more so. She puts on voices for the brats, different pitches for different characters. She reads like storytellin is her job and even though the hunter's got no idea what the hell the story's about, he finds himself drawn in by her voice and her mannerisms, the calmin air she has about her. He's not surprised that the girl and boy drift off, lulled to sleep by Audrey's voice. He _is_ surprised that the kid doesn't notice, however, and continues to read for another ten minutes to him and the dark alone. She eventually stops and Daryl unconsciously looks up, thinks she's gone to sleep now too, but the kid's smilin down at the little girl in her lap, strokin her hair. Suddenly, Daryl becomes aware of a soft tune she is hummin under her breath, tuneless and absentminded. It's barely audible, no louder than a sigh, but Daryl frowns at her all the same. Something about the melody stirs a memory in the back of his mind. It's faint, hazy, black and white with crappy audio like that piece a shit TV Merle and him had back at home, but it's there nonetheless. His eyes close under there own volition and then there are slim fingers on his forehead, a ghost of a brush, and he sees a flash of golden hair, soft and curled behind his eyes. There's a warm press to his cheek, the mere memory of a kiss, and the smell of anemones as someone hums a tuneless song. (2)

"_Story time's over sweetheart. Now, sleep Daryl. Sleep."_

The hunter's eyes snap open and the ghost of a memory fades away as quickly as it had come. Audrey continues to hum and Daryl grounds himself in watchin her, in the way she kisses the Grimes boy's hair and smiles. But that ghost in his head dances along the fringes of his thoughts, motherly smiles and soft laughter, and he drops his eyes to his lap again. He fumbles with a screwdriver and knife, tries to tighten a screw in Merle's old switchblade, but there's this itchy feelin in his veins now. It burns through him and then he recognizes it, jerks his head up to find the eyes searin through his skin. The kid blinks in surprise at him but he can't see the color of her eyes any more, the flashlight in her lap switched off. It's all gloom and shadows now and Daryl finds himself scowlin in discomfort when Audrey continues to stare. She looks surprised but in turn surprises him by stickin her tongue out like a child. Daryl rolls his eyes in response and pretends to go back to his switchblade but he doesn't miss the kid's sleepy smile or the way she knocks out cold not five minutes later.

When Walsh rolls over some time later in the dark and replaces him on watch, Daryl finds himself castin the kid once last glance and thinkin she looks so much younger asleep, so much more vulnerable. She almost looks her age. He doesn't know what to do with that knowledge and forces himself to find a corner and catch a few hours of sleep before they had to get up, leave this tomb, and think of what to do next.

#

"Alright. Everyone settled?"

Grimes looks around at the rest of them with bloodshot eyes and pale skin. The mid-mornin sun is glintin off the sheriff's badge pinned to his heart and there's dirt and blood smeared on the holster of his revolver. Walsh stands to his right, shotgun thrown over his shoulder, and Daryl doesn't think he imagines the glare he sends the other cop when he thinks he ain't lookin. Everyone is tired and strung out and more than a little bit hopeless.

"Ok," Grimes continues when there is no response. He doesn't look like it's ok. "Then let's load up. We'll be headin south on the main road. Dale will take point in the RV and the rest of us will file in. Are there any questions?"

One of the women, Daryl thinks it's the little girl's mother but can't see, speaks up and starts badgerin the cops about food and fuel and other things. Daryl rolls his eyes and breaks off from the back of the group. That shit ain't got nothin to do with him. He heads over to his truck, empty now and siphoned of gas because he can't take it with him. It uses too much fuel, the transmission sticks (it always had but now it could mean the death of him), and Walsh had fuckin went on and on this mornin bout conservation and less vehicles meant less chance of people gettin separated. Daryl had been one of the first to give up his truck, just in hopes the cop would shut the fuck up already, but as he stares at the empty bed now, the fadin blue paint, the crack in the rear window, he thinks maybe he shouldn't have.

"Are you going to miss it?"

The voice has him startin but it really shouldn't. By now, he should be used to it.

"Shouldn't ya be gettin into the RV kid?" he grumbles, not even botherin to turn around. Audrey hums and draws up beside him, leans her hip against his open tailgate, the black hilts of her swords stark against her light blue jean shorts and white t-shirt. Her green eyes stare up at him and Daryl averts his gaze from their intensity.

"All my stuff's packed. I thought I'd just come and see if you need any help." He feels her eyes slide off him, slide to his truck and its thrown open doors, cab and picked clean bed. "Seems you're all packed too though."

Daryl grunts and turns to Merle's bike parked near his rear right tire. He never really liked the monstrosity. It was too big and loud and obnoxious. Just like goddamn Merle. Daryl preferred his own truck, a rust bucket piece of shit but…it was dependable when he needed it and…it was his own. But this new world ain't got room for sentimentality and bullshit. The hunter had to make due with what would keep him alive and suck up all the rest.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl sees the kid scratch her nail along the side of his truck, watches as she flicks the pale blue paint chips away. In the mornin sun, he thinks her bruises look more livid, more condemnin, and he tries to keep his back to her. She, of course, chooses then to round Merle's bike and come to stand in front of him.

"You didn't answer my question," she says lightly when he scowls at her.

"What question?"

"I asked if you were going to miss it." She jerks her chin behind him, bares her throat and the imprint of Merle's fingers. "Your truck. It…it is yours isn't it?"

Daryl sneers at the hesitancy in her voice, the careful question in her green eyes. It's reflex. He can't help it. "I didn't fuckin _steal _it if that's what ya mean," he says ruefully. The kid blinks and then a red stain blooms across her cheeks.

"That's not what I meant," she mutters but Daryl just rolls his eyes and grunts out "Whatever."

It's quiet for a moment as Daryl fumbles with Merle's saddlebags and the kid just stands there. He waits for her to walk off, go find Chinaman or someone else to talk to, but she never does. As the minutes drag on and people start pilin into their cars, the kid still stands there. It gets to the point where Daryl can't take the silence, the awkward tension, and lifts his head to glare at her.

"D'ya need somethin kid?"

Audrey doesn't start at his curt question. She just stares at him and then Merle's bike, goes back and forth between the two with her lower lip caught between her teeth. Daryl's bout to snap at her that she's gonna open the split again when she beats him to the punch.

"Is uh…is that safe?" she asks quietly. "The…the bike I mean."

Daryl frowns. "Safe ain't exactly a word to use nowadays is it?" The kid's left hand clenches at her side for a moment but then it falls lax. Her fingers drift up and start tuggin on wayward strands of her hair.

"No I know I just…I've never ridden a motorcycle before. It's not stupidly dangerous is it?"

The hunter has an ingrained, sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, somethin reflexive along the lines of _what the fuck is it to you _but he doesn't say it. He beats it down and swallows it up cuz the kid's drawin her fingers across the chrome of the bike's handle bars and Daryl is thinkin bout the way she slurs when she's drunk and her soft features as she sleeps and the word _friend friend friend _is poundin with his heartbeat, _is _his heartbeat. He thinks bout his debt to her and Merle's knuckles against her eye but then all that shit's eclipsed by memories of her tryin to help him hunt and her laughin and the fact that Daryl can tolerate…maybe even _likes _bein in her company. A part of him balks at the idea, recoils, but Daryl can't help but notice that it's a smaller part of him than it used to be.

So maybe that's why he, without any thought and before he can stop himself, grumbles out, "Why don't ya see for yerself?"

Audrey's eyes snap to his and they're wide as the moon, almost as wide as her mouth when her jaw drops to the asphalt. "W…what?" she sputters out. Daryl purses his lips and shrugs a shoulder, busies himself with checkin the fuel gage one last time as an engine kicks to life somewhere to his left.

"Look kid. Do ya want a ride or not? Cuz if not ya need to go find one. We're leavin." He points behind her and the kid turns to see Grimes slammin the truck of a station wagon shut, sees the chink and the old man head for the RV. Daryl stares at her profile for a minute, sees the way she keeps goddamn gnawin on her lip, and snorts.

"Hurry up," he tells her gruffly. He swings a leg over the bike (he doesn't really fit right and he doesn't think he ever will) and his hands go for the ignition. There's a shuffle of gravel behind him, the sound of more engines turnin over, and he's just thinkin the kid scurried off to Chinaman when there's a light touch on his shoulder and the kid's breath on his neck. She gingerly sets into place behind him, nearly a foot of space between their bodies, and Daryl feels her hesitatin.

"Uh where do I…how do I hold on?" she asks quietly. Daryl squirms cuz she's so close and berates himself an idiot in the back of his mind for even sayin anythin in the first place. There's the sudden honk of a horn to draw his attention, however, and he looks up to see the RV pullin out of the parkin lot and Walsh wavin him on. Time to head out. He lifts an arm in acknowledgement, starts the bike, and says over his shoulder, "Better find out quick kid." He knows he's a dick for givin her no instuction but he can't think of what to tell her, no words come, so he settles, as always, for action. Action speaks louder than words right? And the kid's a quick learn anyway. He barely waits a breath before he's kickin off the ground and easin the throttle back, the bike lurchin to motion underneath him.

At his back, the kid shrieks in surprise and arms suddenly latch onto him, scrabblin along his hips and ribs before clingin for dear life around his gut. The kid's holdin on a bit too tight, pressin on still fresh bruises, but he guess he deserves it as she shakes in fear against his spine. He doesn't gun it out of the parking lot, is barely goin 20mph, but Audrey's plastered to his back and Daryl's glad for the amount of concentration a motorcycle needs to drive cuz otherwise he wouldn't know what to think bout with the kid so close and against him and god he almost fidgets at the thought.

It's just as they're pullin onto the main road though, right before he picks up speed, that Audrey hisses in his ear, "You are a fucking _asshole _Daryl!" and the hunter smirks and thinks maybe the discomfort's worth it if the kid livens up a bit.

* * *

><p>After the initial take off, and after my stomach meandered its way back out of my shoes, I have to admit…the motorcycle wasn't that bad.<p>

That being said, I'm still not all that comfortable with it. The fact that there is still _nothing _to hold me in as Daryl rockets down empty roads freaks me out and if I wasn't afraid of being thrown off and skidding a football field length over asphalt, I might be slightly embarrassed over how tightly I'm clinging to the hunter in front of me. As it is…I can't really manage the mortification. If Daryl is uncomfortable with my grip…well actually he can stuff it because he scared the shit out of me to begin with.

Remembering how the hunter took off without giving me any instructions, I glare at the back of his head for the umpteenth time and clench my arms around his ribs. He squirms slightly and I almost smirk…before he yanks back the throttle again and we lurch forward, the roar of the engine deafening in my ears. I gasp, the sound torn away by the wind, and unconsciously press my face between Daryl's shoulder blades as he swerves around yet another broken down car. I think I feel the man laugh but I can't be sure.

When we've slowed down to humane levels, I chance lifting my head and looking around. The wind is sharp, whipping my hair around and stinging my eyes, but I squint against it and manage to make out the green blur of countryside as we fly past. The midday sun is warm along my face and it chases away the chill that had set into my bones yesterday. The CDC still clings to my thoughts—and Jacqui and Jim, Amy, Kaleigh—but it all begins to thaw and bleed away as Daryl speeds faster and farther and further. I sigh and lean my cheek against Daryl's shoulder. My eyes feel heavy and I let them drift close, focusing on the steady _whoosh _of air beneath my ear as Daryl breathes in and out, focusing on the sturdy drumming of his heartbeat.

We've been driving for about half an hour or so. We've cleared the city, after some tedious navigation of abandoned roadblocks, and Georgia stretches out wide and bare before us. Fort Benning is still hours away and God only knows what awaits us there. Pursing my lips, I shift to peek over Daryl's shoulder, anticipating gray asphalt and open sky, but a different sight greets me. A knot immediately tightens in my gut.

"Hey," I call over the wind. Daryl half turns his head to acknowledge me and I lean up and forward to speak directly in his ear. "What's that?"

"What's what?" he shouts back over his shoulder. The bike twitches a bit to the right and Daryl turns to talk but he straightens it out quickly.

I clench myself tight to Daryl's back with my left hand and shakily raise my right, bandaged wrist. "That," I yell as I point at a smudged blur on the horizon. Somehow, in the past half an hour, Daryl and I had snuck into the point position of our little caravan. We roared yards ahead of the others and in result, we are the first to see things coming toward us. Or that we're heading towards. Daryl strains forward, to see I would assume, and after a moment I think I hear the end of a bitten off curse. He guns the engine again and I quickly drop my other arm to his waist, awkwardly cradling the jut of his hipbone in the curve of my elbow. My wrist aches in response but I ignore the almost second nature pain as Daryl and I hurtle down the highway and closer to the smudge that it quickly becoming clear.

It only takes a few minutes for us to reach it, the smudge, and it turns out to be a flipped over 18-wheeler, sprawled across the two lanes of abandoned cars. Daryl slows down to almost a stop as we weave through the cars and, this time around, I definitely hear the curse that falls off his tongue.

"Fuck," he spits as we stop between an empty horse trailer and an old Toyota Corolla. I nervously look around, eyes peeled for movement, for walkers. Nothing catches my eye but I still have this tight feeling in my chest. Subconsciously, I press closer to Daryl.

"You think we can make it through?" I ask quietly. Cars stretch to the blurred line of the horizon, miles off, and to each side of the woods on our right and left. The empty spaces of cement in between are littered with trash and, I gulp silently, I think I see a foot sticking out from underneath one of the cars.

Daryl growls under his breath. "Dunno," he says reluctantly. The bike snarls between our legs and Daryl wrenches the handles to the left. "Maybe if it was just us," he muses as he turns the bike around. "The RV is gonna be the most trouble."

"But we can just move cars right? We can still get through?"

Daryl doesn't answer me this time and we pick our way back to where the others have yet to hit the line of cars. His silence disquiets me and when the RV breaks down with the sound of a gunshot and a cloud of smoke, I almost think Daryl had seen this coming.

#

Shane sends us out to scavenge. A harsh word but these are harsh times. I've come to accept it. Lori, on the other hand, hasn't.

"This is a _graveyard_," she stresses. Her eyes sweep the empty cars and discarded things. She speaks as if we were exhuming bodies and desecrating graves.

Rick fidgets beside her in discomfort; Shane's lips thin into a blanched line. Carl and Sophia hide behind their mothers and Daryl is half in the trunk of a nearby station wagon, digging through a ghost's belongings. He doesn't even seem fazed, not that he ever really does. The others, however, give pause.

"Maybe…Maybe Lori's right," Carol timidly speaks up. She looks a little pale around the eyes and her lips tremble. Andrea starts to murmur her assent, a tad half-hearted, and Glenn seems a little stricken. I sigh, loudly, without meaning to and eyes swing around to pin me to the asphalt.

I squirm under the hot stares, sweat prickling on the nape of my neck and along my hairline. "Sorry," I mutter.

"Do you have something ya want to add Audrey?" Shane inquires. There is an irritated undertone to his question, a flare of annoyance in his dark brown eyes, but I attribute it to exhaustion rather than malice. I shrug my shoulders, wishing I had never made a noise. Nothing for it now, however. Might as well say it.

"Not really. I was just thinking…these people are long gone." I avert my eyes from Lori's betrayed glower and reach into the window of the Jeep I'm leaning against. I pull my hand out and in my fingers is a first-aid kit, not even opened. Flipping it in my hand, I look up and glance at the others. "They left this stuff behind. Yeah it probably wasn't out of choice but…it's here all the same. Letting it go to waste because of some sense of morality that is no longer practical…seems kind of…" I trail off, hoping to find a neutral term, but Daryl snorts from my side and grunts a not so quiet, "_Stupid." _I wince but can't help but agree.

Lori looks almost disgusted and righteously angry. "So what?" she snaps. "We just stop being decent human beings?!"

I sigh and rub at my nose, grimace when I press on the still sore cartilage. "That's not what I said or meant. I just..."

"You're just being practical."

I blink and shoot Rick a grateful glance and he smiles softly, tiredly, in return. The older man steps up and takes the reigns and I can almost physically _see _his shoulders bend with the weight of responsibility.

"Look," he starts off and his eyes go beseechingly to his wife first. "I know this isn't ideal…but you all know how low on supplies we are. And how far we still have to go. It feels wrong. I get that, I do." He puts a hand over his heart, tanned and calloused fingers folding over the sheriff's badge still pinned to his chest. "But we have to do whatever it takes to survive now. Does everyone understand?"

Slowly, one by one, people begin to nod. Lori's lips thin into a dangerously line but she doesn't say a word more as people scatter between the cars. I try to catch her eye and shoot her an apologetic smile but she stiffly turns her back on me and herds Carl to a car close by. Sophia catches my eye instead and she waves shyly, a ratty doll, Eliza's I realize and my heart clenches at the memory of Morales and his family, clutched to her chest. I smile in return and wave back. The little girl's timid yet bright smile is the last thing I see before there's a hand on my shoulder and I'm spinning around in shock.

Daryl raises an eyebrow at me and I barely curb the urge to punch him.

"What the hell have I told you about sneaking up on me?" I snap. My heart pounds out a frantic tattoo beneath my ribs. He rolls his eyes in response.

"Be more alert then kid. Christ knows ya need to be."

I scowl at the hunter and release the hold I had on my tanto's hilt. "Did you need something Daryl?"

His blue eyes find mine and I think I see an instant of hesitancy in them before his gaze clicks away. "Ya goin out?" he questions. He gestures over his shoulder and my eyes follow the movement to the line of cars at his back. A few cars away, I see T-Dog already beginning to siphon gas.

"Was planning to," I respond. My ankle throbs at the thought but I push the pain away. "Why? Need a buddy?"

I say it like a joke, as if I'm teasing, but I quickly find myself holding my breath as I wait for Daryl's reply. I know what he said at the CDC and I know how he's been acting…differently but what I don't know is _why. _

Is this because he still feels guilty about Merle? (And another thing about that…does he still blame me?)

Is it because he thinks I'm still suicidal and feels some odd sense of obligation to watch me?

Or…or is it really because he's my…_**friend**_?

It's the end of the fucking world. People are dying left and goddamn right. This shouldn't matter as much as it does to me. But I can't help it. I really just can't.

Daryl looks at me and his expression is unreadable. Silence stretches between us for ten seconds…twenty…thirty. Then, just as I am thinking it has to be one of the first two reasons, Daryl snorts and shifts his crossbow to lie more comfortablely across his back.

"Ya might be cripple but I trust you to watch my back more than any of these assholes. At least ya know how to handle a weapon. So ya comin or what?"

He turns without waiting for me to answer but I smile anyways because it seems maybe, just maybe, all my work has paid off. I quickly limp after him and do my best to stop grinning like an idiot.

I think I hear someone call my name but I must be imagining it.

* * *

><p>Glenn watches Audrey slip in between the cars and glide farther and farther away. He can still taste her name on his tongue, it still echoes against broken glass and rusted metal, but the girl doesn't falter. She doesn't stop. She just keeps walking, hot on the heels of Daryl Dixon, and Glenn thinks he actually hears her laugh.<p>

He sighs and turns back to the fuming radiator in front of him. At his side, Dale shoots him a sympathetic look. "Do you want me to call her back?" he asks softly, in that meddling, caring way of his. Glenn shakes his head and sticks his arm into the Winnebago, screwdriver in hand and sweat on his brow.

"There wouldn't be a point," he responds and the truth tastes bitter at the back of his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Glenn sees Dale frown.

"You can't just give up son."

Glenn almost laughs. Did everyone know? How pathetic. Instead, he just wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist and ignores the pity in Dale's gaze.

"Giving up implies I had a chance Dale."

The young man thinks back to Amy, his friend Amy, all blonde hair and blue eyes and bright optimism.

"_Oh my god! Glenn you like her! Oh my GOD! You two would be so CUTE together. I wonder…I bet she likes you too! Ahh! If it's the last thing I do, I will see the two of you together."_

Glenn had tried to stop her, had tried to get her to forget it. But…Amy is…_**was **_stubborn. She was like a dog with a bone. She tried her hardest to get Glenn and Audrey in the same places together, tried to get Audrey to see Glenn like he saw her; Amy even went so far as to ask Audrey what she thought of him. Glenn never heard what the brunette's answer had been but…he thinks he can guess it now.

"_Sorry Amy,"_ he thinks to himself. _"Guess you were wrong." _

It really wasn't a wonder as to why he fell for her. This girl that came stumbling out of the woods with a sword in hand and blood streaming down her face like some warrior princesses out of a video game. This girl that was tough as nails but could be completely soft hearted. This girl that read to little kids and helped old, senile men. This girl that stood up to assholes and faced down walkers and was his friend.

And, apparently, this girl that was only ever to _be _his friend.

Glenn sighs and tries not to think of Audrey or her green eyes, her white smile, her easy laugh. He definitely tries not to think about that drunken kiss two nights ago and whether or not Audrey remembers and is just ignoring it or if it was lost in the haze of alcohol. He tries all this…and he fails…and he can't help but wonder…

How the hell had he lost to _**him?**_

* * *

><p>"Shit!"<p>

Daryl reacts without thinking and steadies the kid as she stumbles into him. His hand encircles the sharp jut of her elbow and he frowns as he thinks how fragile she seems sometimes. Glass bones and paper skin.

"Fucking hell. I swear to God, if the asshole who invented shoelaces isn't dead yet I hope he meets his end soon. These things _never fucking stay tied."_

Then again…maybe fragile ain't the right word.

Scoffin under his breath, Daryl releases the kid's arm and glances down at her feet. For the umpteenth time in goddamn ten minutes, her shoelaces are tangled underfoot. If Daryl didn't have the reflexes that he did, Audrey would have ended up on her face multiple times by know, road rash carved into her cheeks.

Somethin traitorous at the back of Daryl's mind directs his eyes to the kid's cheek, to the mess of bruises and scabbed over skin, remnants from where Merle _shoved her face into the gravel rooftop, _and he has to turn away or the fuckin guilt would make him sick. To escape it, Daryl goes back to diggin through cars and poppin the doors to the gas tank so the nigger can siphon the gas when he draws closer.

He's hangin halfway through the open door of a large SUV when he hears yet another curse behind him and the sound of a body smackin into the ground. He spins on reflex, clippin his head on the roof of the car, hand already on the hilt of his knife, when he finally spots the kid sprawled a few feet away on the ground. She's grimacin, flat on her ass, head lollin against the caved in door of a Chevy. Her face looks a little pale and the lines around her mouth, her _greengreen _eyes, are tight with what he realizes is pain. Somethin burns under his skin and Daryl shifts his weight from foot to foot as he stares down at her.

"Walk much kid?" he grunts and Audrey weakly manages to flip him the bird.

"Fucking shoelaces." She gestures curtly to her feet and Daryl ain't surprised to find her shoes untied yet again. Daryl purses his lips and looks back at the kid's face but her eyes are closed, her breathin slightly labored. The hunter wonders what to do and his first solution, his default to everythin, is just to walk away. Ain't his problem. He ain't got to do shit bout it.

He entertains the idea for bout ten seconds before it's discarded. He can't just leave the kid on the ground out here. He'd said that he trusted the kid to watch his back (and he did, especially after her stint at the old folk's home courtyard) and he's got to return the favor to her.

Daryl originally plans to stand watch as the kid rests a bit, maybe scavenge the vehicles in a ten-foot radius, but before he knows it, he's kneelin in front of Audrey and reachin for her foot. The second his fingers brush the bare skin of her ankle, Audrey's eyes are snappin open and she's flinchin back a few inches. Her green eyes find his and there's a flare of shock in them, streaks of curiosity. Daryl finds his cheeks burnin—he blames the afternoon sun hot on his neck—and he mentally wonders what the fuck he's doin.

"If things go to shit," he grunts out. His voice is overly sharp as he starts to tug her shoelaces into place, cinch them into knots. "Ya need to be able to run and not fall flat on yer face." Audrey says nothin and he tucks the ends of her laces into the side of her shoe before he turns to the other.

Daryl takes one look at the half unraveled bow and makes a strangled noise of disbelief and disgust. "Fuck kid! Who the hell taught you how to tie shoes?"

Audrey kicks out at him half-heartedly, clippin him on his thigh. "Hey! You try tying a knot with a broken wrist!" She waves the wrapped appendage at him and all he can think is _at least the kid knows how to split a broken bone. _

As he finishes her other shoe, and casts half a glance at the bruised ankle he's holdin, Daryl starts to think bout the stash of drugs he stowed in Merle's bike and how he knows there's a bottle of high quality pain pills in there. Maybe later, when they're headin out again, he'll slip her a few.

Done, Daryl lifts his head only to find Audrey starin out him. There's somethin in her eyes, somethin he recognizes, somethin soft, that has him rockin to his feet and snatchin his crossbow from where it's propped against the Chevy's tires.

"Come on," he grumbles, all too aware of footsteps a few yards away and the smell of gasoline. "We need to open more tanks so the nigger can siphon fuel."

"Don't do that."

Daryl blinks at the sudden sharpness to the kid's voice and he glances at her over his shoulder. She's painstakingly pullin herself up off the ground, gropin along the truck's door, and her brow is creased into a drastic frown. The softness is gone from her gaze and Daryl now sees anger, irritation…disapproval.

"Don't do what?" he grunts back. He tries to drum up and aggravated tone but he's distracted by the sweat in the hollow of the kid's collar bone, by the way her white shirt clings to her ribs and a dark shadow that curves across her torso beneath the thin fabric. He frowns and squints at it, tries to discern its shape, but Audrey's suddenly walkin towards him and he reflexively takes a step back.

"Use that word," Audrey continues. With each step, her frown deepens. "T-Dog has a name you know. You don't have to call him derogatory words."

It takes a minute for Daryl to realize what she's talkin bout and then it's his turn to frown. "What the hell is it to you what I call that _n…nigger?_" he grits out. He stumbles on the word, he doesn't know why, but the kid seizes it like a dog would a bone.

"Cuz I know that racial slurs and a piss poor attitude is not who you are Daryl," she tells him and she's suddenly _right _in front of him. She's not in his face, there's still a foot or so of space between them, but Daryl tenses up all the same. He scowls and goes to snap at her, what he doesn't know, but she beats him to it.

"And don't growl something out at me to try and make me think different. I know you aren't the man you try so desperately to make the others believe you are: some red neck that doesn't give two shits about anyone else. I _know _that isn't you."

Daryl squirms in discomfort under her words and her stare and he does the only thing he knows how.

He lashes out.

"You don't know anythin bout me _kid,_" he sneers at her with bare teeth. Audrey doesn't even flinch at his tone. In fact, she just rolls her eyes.

"I don't know a lot about you but I do know some _Daryl._" She stresses his name as if to garner his attention and when his eyes find hers…he draws up short.

That softness is back again. Small, and just around the edges. But it's there.

The kid takes advantage of his silence and presses on. "I know that you're kind under that asshole exterior…"

Daryl snorts derisively but she ignores him. "I also know you're smarter that people take you for. I've seen it so don't try and deny it. I don't know why you try to hide all this but…you're your own goddamn person Daryl. And maybe you should start acting like it."

Daryl is stunned into silence at Audrey's words and can only stand there like an idiot as she spares him one last glance before sighin and turnin on heel. She begins to walk away, farther out into the jagged labyrinth of cars, but not before throwin one last comment over her shoulder.

"You're my friend Daryl," she calls and that sentence, said aloud, is like a punch to his chest. "_You…_not your brother. Think about that okay?"

And then she's gone, threadin her way through the stalled cars and flipped over trucks. A part of Daryl wants to be pissed, wants to curse at the kid for mentionin his brother, so soon after Daryl's lost him, and while he does find himself irritated…he can't seem to accomplish the righteous anger he was expectin.

Maybe it's cuz when he follows the kid a few minutes later, he finds a stack of crossbow bolts sittin on the hood of a car, right in his way.

Maybe it's cuz when he catches her eye through the window of another car, Audrey, with a straight face, tosses somethin at him and can't stop her stoic mask from crackin when Daryl drops the lacy pair of panties like they're on fire.

Maybe…it's cuz Daryl realizes that…the kid hadn't been expectin better from him, like every other person had in his life. Teachers and bosses, co-workers and ex-girlfriends. The kid…had said he _was _better, already, and was just hidin it away.

Daryl didn't know why but for some reason…that difference was rather important.

"Hey man," a voice says behind him a while later and Daryl turns to see the ni—T-Dog starin at him warily. "Have you found any more gas containers? I've run out."

The hunter purses his lips and silently backtracks a few cars to where he'd stacked a couple of things he had planned to come back for. He grabs a red gas tank, turns, and hands it to the other man.

T-Dog blinks at him, surprise written all over his face, and pulls the container to his chest. "T…thanks," he mutters and Daryl grunts before walkin away.

When he looks up a moment later, Daryl doesn't miss the smile on Audrey's face as she turns away and can't help the preenin sensation, small and quiet, in his chest as he shadows her footsteps.

* * *

><p>I'm happy.<p>

Which is a feat in and of itself.

My wrist is still broken, my ankle still bruised; my ribs still ache and my eye is still black and discolored, my lip split.

The CDC is gone; we're on the road again with only half a hope in the world. Food is scarce and fuel even more so.

People have died; people I have _cared _about.

But despite all that, I'm happy. I've hit some kind of breakthrough with Daryl. He's almost joking around with me and while he's not exactly smiling…I think he's enjoying my company too.

(Ok well except for when I threw a pair of panties at him. He looked kind of pissed at that but his face was _priceless. _I couldn't even stay mad at him after that.)

Daryl has found some food; about seventy-five yards away I see Shane bathing in the product of a full water truck. T-Dog's been running back and forth with fuel for nearly half an hour.

All in all…it's a good day. All in all…I'm happy.

Which is exactly why is all goes south so quickly.

It happens when I'm walking between a moving van and an overturned motorcycle. I had left Daryl at a large truck a few yards behind. He had said something about guns in the glove compartment and I'd shrugged before going on my way. I wasn't going to go too far. Just on to the next vehicle. I was looking for clothes, jackets and stuff mostly. The nights were starting to get colder. It wasn't by much but enough to make me realize winter was quickly approaching. I'd need more than shorts and tank tops to keep warm in the coming months.

I had just spotted an open car in front of me, with a suitcase half sticking out of the backseat, when there's a shuffle of gravel behind me and Daryl's voice slices through the air.

I really should have known.

"_Kid!"_

It's his tone that raises the hair along my arms and, even before I completely turn around, I know something is wrong.

Daryl is sprinting between the vehicles, crouched low and to the ground. As he draws closer, I see that his eyes are bright blue and burn with their intensity. His face is drawn and urgent.

"What?" I call, quietly because his expression calls for it. "What's happened?"

Daryl doesn't answer me. He just skids to a stop by my side, gravel spraying everywhere, and his eyes frantically skip around. His chest is heaving and he's so close to me I can almost hear is racing heartbeat.

"Daryl," I hiss. "_What's happened?"_

The hunter snaps his eyes to him, his mouth opens, and out issues a guttural moan. My eyes widen and I almost take a step back before Daryl spins around and curses. I follow his line of sight and instantly go cold.

Walkers. A horde of them; a herd of them. They spill between the cars like water, a never-ending flood, and I have half a moment to wonder about Carl, Sophia, _Glenn, _before Daryl is yanking on my arm and shoving me to the ground. It all happens so fast. Action and reaction. Push and pull. There is no time for thinking, no time for questions. I move without too much prompting and hit the ground as Daryl does beside me. Rocks and broken pieces of glass dig into my skin, biting, tearing, and Daryl urges me under the moving van we had been standing beside. I do my best to shuffle quickly, nearly biting my tongue off when I jar my broken wrist against the van's axle, and Daryl is right on my heels. The two of us press tightly together, me half on my side to accommodate Daryl's bigger bulk, and the instant we stop moving, stop breathing, start _waiting, _do we hear the drag of feet that announces their arrival.

Except…it's not _them. _

Shoes that I somehow recognize stumble past. There's a splash of something wet onto the ground, droplets peppering my face, and I hear a voice that is in no way a walker's moan.

"_Oh fucking Christ. Oh god no."_

My eyes go wide and I find Daryl looking at me, inches away, with the same expression.

"T-Dog," I whisper and that's when I notice that the liquid on my face, the salt in my mouth, is **blood. **

No. No no _nonono. _Not T-Dog too. We can't lose someone else.

Daryl and I stare at each other in silence for a split second, the drone of walkers drawing closer and closer, before we start into action.

I move to slip out from under the right side of the van, Daryl the left, but neither of us gets far. Daryl's hand, tight on my upper arm, has us both freezing.

"Where the fuck are ya going?" Daryl snarls in my face. I'm so close to him I can see the slight over sharpness of one of his canines. I wrench against Daryl's hold, frantic as the shifting gravel starts to get louder behind us.

"T-Dog's hurt," I hiss back. I think about blood and Amy and _JimKaleighJacqui._ "He needs help! You can't just expect me to—"

Daryl shakes me so hard my teeth rattle. "I know," he snaps and his blue eyes bore straight into my soul. "_You _stay **here**. I'll go."

"Daryl you—"

"_Stay _Audrey."

The use of my name, my actual name, has me freezing in shock and Daryl takes the opportunity to let go of my arm and shimmy out from under the van. I think about following, fuck Daryl and his orders, but just as I shift to do so, footsteps sound directly behind me and then…they're here.

I stop breathing, my body clenches tight, and I have just enough frame of mind to silently pull my tanto out of its sheathe and roll completely on my stomach. Minutes pass as I stare at the flood of stumbling feet. I lose count of the rotten toes, the bare feet, the worn out shoes and glinting bone that shamble past my hiding place. My heart beats a brand against the inside of my chest and the only thing that keeps me sane is that, beside the ever present moans, everything is…silent.

No screams.

No shouts.

No wails of fear or grief.

That must mean…everyone is safe right?

I bite my lip and tell myself _right _because the alternative is something I don't want to entertain.

An eternity come and goes. I find myself straining to see between the front tires of the van, looking for glimpses of Daryl, of T-Dog, but there is nothing but walker's ankles and fumbling feet. Fear crystallizes in my veins and I slowly feel it shatter, piece by piece, and tear at me slowly. Cut me up from the inside. By the time the last walker ambles past, I've nearly gone mad with _what ifs _and anxiety.

I wait a moment, two, and then slowly slide out from under the van. No walkers lunge for me. I push myself into a crouch, look around, but nothing moves. They're gone. Releasing a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding, I'm just taking a step forward, to look for Daryl, and that asshole better not be hurt, when I hear it.

The noise I've been silently praying would not sound.

A scream. Loud and bone chilling; blood curling. I spin around to look behind me, squint against the sun, and feel my heart stop as I see Sophia, little Sophia, jump the highway guard rail far in the distance with two walkers hot on her heels. I spare half a thought for Daryl, decide he's a big boy and wouldn't be so stupid as to die, and take off at sprint towards Sophia. Before I get close, I see Rick scale the rail, sprint into the woods, and by the time I arrive at the spot they disappeared, he and Sophia are long gone.

I stand there, panting on the asphalt, surrounded by the rest of the, thankfully _whole _members of my group, and strain to see the path Sophia and Rick took. Just as I think I see a trail of bent grass and broken twigs, just as I'm about to jump the rail and follow, another gasp explodes behind me. I whirl around, half aware of Shane cocking his shotgun beside me, to see a handful of straggler walkers, ambling quickly towards us.

"Shit," Shane curses and his voice breaks with fear. Lori sobs out beside him and Carl begins to whimper. I don't have the energy to agree with Shane before I shove my tanto into the sheathe at my hip and reach around for the katana along my spine.

_Please, let Sophia be all right. _

"Don't shoot unless I'm about to die," I pant out to the cop beside me. Ignoring the eyes that swerve to stare at me, ignoring the halfhearted pleas for me to stop, I twirl the sword in my hand and slowly start forward, counting one geek, two, five and six.

_Please, let Sophia be all right. _

Praying that Rick and Sophia will be ok, praying that they'll make it back alive, I gather all the strength I can and lash out as the first walker reaches me.

I soon get lost in the sound of moans, the wet spray of blood, and the silver gleam of steel as it arcs through the air.

And all the while, a frantic, single mantra pounds inside my head.

_Please, let Sophia be all right._

* * *

><p><strong>(1) You are Tired by E.E. Cummings<strong>

**(2) Anemones- flowers that speak of fragileness **

**(0) The title of this chapter is from Richard Siken's Poem _Road Music. _The stanza that it's from is as follows and I thought it worked well: **

_There should be just one safe place_

_in the world, I mean_

_this world, I'm still talking about this world. People get hurt here. People fall down_

_and stay down and I don't like the way_

_the song goes. _

**_**A/N:**_** Well...there is half of the first episode! :D Again, sorry it took so damn long :/ ****

****Just some FYIs. The first scene, with the group going back to the retirement center, is not of my own though process. On the TWD DVD, it's a deleted scene :) I added my own flourish but that's about it. ****

****So...what did you guys think of the Audrey/Daryl interaction? :/ That was the HARDEST part EVER for me because I'm trying to keep true to the angry, standoffish Daryl of season 2 but still have him getting closer to Audrey and...mehhhh X( It's hard. ****

****Did I at least partially succeed? ****

****ALSO! Sorry if it confused you, but I squeezed a little bit of Glenn's POV in there. I did that because one, last chapter and the drunken kiss and two, because Maggie's coming in soon :) Just thought Chinaman deserved a little limelight. ****

****I hope this chapter, even though it took 12890 years, was adequate enough and I just wanted to say I love each and every reader out there! You guys broke the 300 review barrier! You don't know how ridiculously happy that makes me! DX So THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!****

****And, as always, if you have an questions, comments, confusions, or concerns feel free to PM me and I'll address them accordingly! :)****

****Until next time!****

****~Shadows****

****PS: ~~~!PLEASE READ!~~~~****

**** Hey guys! I was looking at the story's Summary the other day and...I dont think I really like it any more. :P Do you guys have any suggestions? :D I loved to hear them. Send me a PM of what you think the summary should be and if i receive a lot I'll even change it to what I think is the best suggestion! ^^ PLEASE do this. If you are so inclined that is. ****


	27. This Kind of Life Keeps Breaking Your

**So I could sit here for about an hour and write out why I'm such an sshole and haven't updated in ten thousand years but frankly, by this point, I'm sure you don't give a sh!t. All I'll say is, school sucks, family sucks, and writers block is a ficking cu#t. **

**I really, REALLY tried to finish the first episode with this but it just _wasnt _happening. I have half the next chapter written now, though, so I hope to get that out a LOT sooner than this crap. **

**If I still have readers out there, I hope you enjoy this :( There is a LOOOOOOT of Daryl/Audrey fluff in this (and even some sexual tension) so I hope it makes up for the long lapse in updates. **

**[I know it doesn't.]**

**Before I let you go, however, I just wanted to thank you guys from the bottom of my HEART. Do you see that number of reviews? I won't even mention the follows and favorites. I'm just...so overwhelmed and thankful and x( Just...thank you so much. It really means a lot to me. **

**Now without further audieu or BS, here's chapter 27. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC and her specific plot line. I make no profit from this.**

**Warnings: language, mentions of gore and suicide **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 27: This Kind of Life Keeps Breaking Your Heart<strong>

* * *

><p>"A…are you alright Audrey?"<p>

The voice sounds worlds away, muffled, and oh so very faint. I turn to find it, and my vision swims. It's day and night and then day again, and it takes longer than it should for me to realize that my eyes are falling shut and snapping open without my consent.

Carl stares up at me with tears in his crystal blue eyes. He looks so young. He _is _so young I have to remind myself. Barely 12 years old. Just a child. Just like…

My heart clenches painfully and that wild panic starts to claw its way up my throat again. I force it down with a strained smile.

"I'm fine Carl," I tell him. Reaching out, I try to ruffle his hair, a habit of mine, but my arm shakes from overexertion. I settle for placing my fingers against the jut of his shoulder.

He frowns and looks so like his mother. I can tell he knows I'm lying, but I don't have the energy to convince him otherwise. I barely have the energy to talk with him. My eyes fall shut again, and I can't get them to open fast enough.

"Carl why don't you go check on your mother? I'm sure she needs some support right now."

It's a dismissal, and Carl realizes it: He tenses underneath the hand I have yet to drag off his shoulder and, when he speaks, his words tremble slightly.

"B…but I wanted to make sure you were ok." My eyes are still closed but I can imagine the expression he is wearing: wide, blue eyes and pale, trusting face. "You…you look sick."

The fear is sharp in his voice. I know how I must look, collapsed here against a broken car, sitting on the hood and unable to move even as the rusted metal sears the bottoms of my thighs. I know that I'm covered in blood and sweat from head to toe, the colors of gore stark against my skin, my white shirt, and blue jean shorts. I'm a canvas of unholy colors and I'm panting with exertion, on the very precipice of passing out. The last people Carl saw in such a state…

_Jim. _

_Amy. _

The names rattle at the back of my skull, ricocheting and echoing painfully through the dark caverns there.

"I'm just a little tired. It's really nothing too bad. I'll rest awhile and be back on my feet in no time."

I struggle to open my eyes, and Carl stands there with that worried frown still etched onto his face. There's dirt on the bridge of his nose, framed by faint freckles. I think of Irina, Manny, and I wish with all my might that I could shelter this poor young boy from hunger, from pain, from sadness. I'm slowly beginning to realize, however, that this might be impossible. The knowledge fills me with unfathomable despair.

"Carl?!"

Lori's voice snakes its way in between the cars. There's a frantic edge to it, sharp and fearful, and I can almost hear her worried thoughts from here. I kick out with my uninjured foot and nudge Carl in the hip, trying desperately to ignore how my leg trembles.

"Go on," I tell him. "You should stay close to your mom for the time being. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

The young boy bites his lip and looks conflicted, but Lori's voice is rising in pitch as she calls out his name again, so he can do nothing but accept my words. He spares me one last concerned glance before running towards the sound of his mother. I follow him with my eyes until I can see Lori over the top of car, meeting him halfway. She pulls him close and I see her mutter something to him, threading her fingers through his hair, wiping that smudge of dirt off his nose. The sight makes my chest feel tight, that panic rising to block my throat again. I'm just about to push off the hood I'm sitting on, exhaustion be damned, when a voice stops me.

"Somebody should."

I blink and turn to see Glenn a few feet away. There's a smear of black grease across his cheek but, other than that, his face is uncharacteristically pale.

"Huh?" I don't understand what he's just said.

"You told Carl not to worry about you, but _somebody_ should." He walks over to the car I'm perched on and leans against the fender. Something is off about him—his voice, his expression—but I can't place it. I stare at him a few moments more and realize he will not meet my eye.

"I don't need a babysitter Glenn." There's a bite to my words that I can't whittle down. "And there are more important things that need to be done right now than staring at me sitting on my ass."

The young man winces but finally looks up. His brown eyes find mine, dark with anxiety and pain. It's a sickening combination, and one that I am used to. "I'm worried about Sophia too, you know," he says quietly. The saliva in my mouth suddenly dries up and my heart pounds painfully behind my ribs; it brands a tattoo under my skin, a tattoo of panic and fear and Sophia_SophiaSophia. _

Most of the men had gone out after Rick turned up at the railing, sweaty, tired, and alone. The second he asked where Sophia was my stomach plummeted to the ground. Sophia wasn't with us; she wasn't with him. That meant she was out in the woods by herself. The woods…these fucking woods full of walkers. Rick tried to save face, glaze over the panic he saw settling in to everyone's features. He told the men to come with him; he said that Sophia was probably just resting in some bush nearby. They left…and then Glenn and Shane came back, refusing to meet anyone's eyes and telling everyone to go back to scavenging. It was a distraction if I ever saw one. The only reason I hadn't booked it to the trees myself is because I caught Shane before he could slide off, asked him what happened. The former cop wasn't very specific, but he _had _said Daryl was on Sophia's trail. I had breathed a sigh of relief. If Daryl were on her trail, she'd be back in no time. Daryl can find anything, anyone. He's an amazing hunter, an amazing tracker. I kept telling myself these things and held onto a strained hope.

That was hours ago. Daryl and Rick still aren't back. And Sophia…

This time, I'm the one that can't meet Glenn's eyes.

"Come on," I mutter. Sliding off the car, I stumble in the direction of the highway railing, one hand out for balance and the other clenched tight around the hilt of my katana. The sweltering afternoon sun glints off the red-stained steel, and I try to ignore the bits of brain matter that cling to its edge. "We should go see if the others have come back yet."

Glenn sighs behind me, but I hear the crunch of gravel as he follows. He catches my elbow when I stumble but doesn't look at me. I feel the distance between us like a gaping vacuum. But I can't address it, not now. First, we have to find Sophia. Everything else comes second. Once Sophia is safe and sound, I'll apologize to Glenn. I don't know exactly for what—Amy, my suicide attempt—but I know something as to be said. Later, though.

Later.

My skin itches with drying blood; I force myself not to scratch because I fear if I start, I'll dig to the bone, anything to escape this sickening pressure in my chest. A dark voice whispers at the back of my head, "_You should have been there. You promised, promised to protect her. But, then again, we know what your promises are good for, don't we?" _

I bite my lip and taste copper; the voice fades. I cling to the reprieve and start my prayers again, as useless as they probably are.

_Please, let Sophia be all right._

_Please, let her be ok. _

_Please let Daryl and the others bring her back __**safe.**_

_Please…_

* * *

><p>"Are you <em>sure <em>we're goin the right way?"

Daryl grits his teeth and forces down a caustic retort. The fifth goddamn one in as many minutes.

"Yes. " His voice sounds like crushed glass. "Now are ya gonna keep yappin or are ya gonna let me concentrate?"

Grimes sighs at his back but says nothin else. Daryl nearly groans in gratitude. The cop had been nothing but annoyin, insistent questions since Walsh and the chink went back to the highway.

_Can you tell which way she went? _

_Do you see anything? _

_We're goin the right way, right?_

It's enough to make Daryl want to scream. But he doesn't. He just bites his tongue and keeps his eyes down, trackin this fumblin trail of a lost little girl. It ain't easy. Over the last few minutes, the girl's trail has been growin faint. Sometimes, Daryl even loses it for a few moments before he spots somethin out the corner of his eye. He keeps goin though. Even though it's hot as hell. Even though Grimes won't shut the _fuck _up. Even though the two of them are getting farther and farther away from the highway and the sun's close to settin.

After Grimes had asked his goddamn thousandth question, Daryl had started to question himself. Why the fuck was he out here? He owed these people nothin. He didn't _have _to help them at all. But he was, with minimal complaints, and he would be lyin through his teeth if he said it was for any other reason than Audrey.

Daryl purses his lips and squints at the partial impression of the girl's shoe in the dirt. It points West, so the hunter picks his way in that direction, mind half consumed by the memory of the kid comin to him and askin for help.

#

_Standing on the hood of a large 4x4, Daryl cranes his neck to view the surroundin area. Empty cars and hot stagnant air meet his scrutiny. Nothing moves but the handful of people arguin bout 30 yards away and Daryl quickly turns away from their raised voices and wild hand gestures. One ambush was enough. They didn't need a fuckin second one. _

_There's a piece of skin on Daryl's lip that is ragged and bloody, but his teeth worry the sore spot all the same. He's jittery and still on edge. Everyone is. The air is tense and rank with the stench of death. Daryl ain't surprised though. A herd of walkers that size, that much dead flesh, he's actually surprised they ain't gaggin on the thick air. As for the tension…he tries not to think bout it. Not his problem. He's just gonna keep his head low and try to survive. He's just gonna—_

"_Daryl."_

_Fuck. _

_And then she's standin there, right below him. He tries not to look at her, cuz he knows what will happen if he does, but the stubborn kid tries to climb the SUV he's on, and Daryl has no choice but to jump down. Those green eyes capture his the second he straightens out of his crouch, and he can't move even if he tried. _

"_How…" Audrey fidgets: the fingers of her left hand twine into the torn hem of her T-shirt, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot. Daryl finds himself starin at the red and brown splatters that arc across her shirt and the fronts of her thighs. Half-formed questions batter against the back of his teeth but before he can think to ask them, the kid's talkin again. _

"_Are you ok?"_

_Daryl blinks at the question. "Ok? We almost got bit in the ass by a herd of goddamn geeks. How the hell is anyone supposed to be ok?" He doesn't mean to sound so harsh, but his chest feels too tight and loose at the same time, like the race his heart just ran had stretched the muscles in his chest past their capacity, a rubber band pulled thin. _

_Audrey frowns and the motion frames the bruises on her face, the split in her lip. "What I meant was, you're not hurt right?"_

"_Well, that ain't what ya said." _

"_**Daryl.**__"_

_He knows he's bein a smart ass, but he's doin it to distract the kid. Cuz he doesn't want to talk about it. Not at fucking all. Rollin his eyes and his shoulders to match, Daryl averts his gaze to the side. He's fakin bein vigilant and hopes Audrey will buy it. "Yeah, I'm fine. Don't get yer panties in a twist."_

_The kid sighs, and it sounds like relief. Daryl doesn't look to see if she's wearin an expression to match. _

"_Great. That's…that's good. I was…worried," she mumbles, and her words do somethin funny to Daryl's insides. Somethin funny that's been happenin more and more these days…like every time he looks at her. Daryl refuses to acknowledge it._

"_And you?" he finds himself askin without his consent. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Audrey snap her head up and stare at him. His skin feels hot under her gaze, and he rushes to elaborate. "Ya didn't get hurt again did ya? Fuckin magnet for injuries." _

_There's a snort, and then Daryl's bein jostled to the side. He looks down with a scowl, but the kid's grinnin up at him, green eyes bright, and he finds he can't maintain it for long. _

_Audrey reaches over her shoulder and pats the hilt of the sword restin there. "I'll have you know, I took out my fair share of walkers, Dixon," she gloats, and Daryl can't help but smirk at her attitude. The kid was still a spitfire, even after all this shit. _

"_That right?"_

_She nods, hair fallin into her eyes. "Yup. I was even gonna come to __**your **__rescue when—"_

_The words stop like she's suddenly chockin on them; the light fades from her eyes; the grin slides right off her face. Daryl tenses cuz he knows what she's tryin to say. He doesn't know what to do bout it, he ain't good at this shit, so he just stands there rigidly, fighting the sudden, desperate urge to reach out and touch the tremblin kid. _

_Fuck. What the hell is wrong with him? _

_He blames it on those goddamn geeks. Ever since Grimes hissed at him to duck under a car, Daryl's been strung tight, on edge, rattlin out of his bones. And not cuz he was scared, at least not for himself. See, when Grimes spat out those words, eyes wild and terrified, the first thought in Daryl's mind was the kid. He doesn't know why, but she was, and he had hauled ass to find her wide eyed and confused between the cars. Shovin her under that movin truck wasn't even a conscious thought._

_But what came next was. Never in a million years would Daryl have thought he'd risk his life for some nig—for someone like T-Dog, yet he did. Cuz the kid was inches away from him under that truck, and her eyes were green and scared and determined to crawl away from him, right into that herd of geeks, and Daryl just couldn't let her do it. He couldn't let her throw her life away like that, not after he almost unknowingly lost her in Atlanta to his brother, and not after he almost lost her to herself and the burnin CDC. So, he forced her to stay under the car, said her name—fuck he can still taste it—and now he's all fucked up and disoriented. _

_Daryl blames the walkers and ignores the voice in the back of his head that keeps whisperin it had nothin to do with the geeks and everythin to do with __**him **__and the changes Audrey was causin somewhere deep in his fuckin DNA. _

"_Daryl…I have to ask you something."_

_All teasing is suddenly gone from her voice; her face is somber as the grave and eyes just as dead. Daryl knows whatever she's bout to ask…he ain't gonna like it. He braces himself like he would for a punch: feet spread apart, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. He grunts somethin of a go-ahead, and the kid starts wringin her shirt again, the split on her lip bleeding once more as she worries it with her straight, white teeth. _

"_Sophia's missing."_

_She says it bluntly, no room for bullshit. Daryl, at the very least, admires that. _

"_I don't know if you heard. You probably did. I mean, you're observant like that after all, and it's all everyone is talking about," she rambles, words trippin over themselves like newborn colts. A stray piece of hair falls into her face, and she brushes it away absentmindedly. Daryl finds himself starin at the blood on the back of her knuckles, a perverse form of freckles. He doesn't like them as much as the ones on her nose. In fact, he hates them. He wants to reach out and scrape them off her skin, but he can't because she's tuckin that hand into her equally tainted shorts and, fuck. Daryl really can't stand those green, green eyes of hers. _

_Especially not with tears in them. _

"_I should have been there," Audrey rasps out and Daryl thinks he might have missed out on some of the conversation. "She needed my help and I wasn't…and now I can't even—" She lifts up her wrist and scowls in disgust at the splint, drops her eyes and sneers at her fucked up ankle. "I can't even go help look for her. I have to sit here with my thumb up my ass while Sophia is out there all alone and scared and—" Her face contorts and Daryl has this sudden, horrible feelin that she's gonna burst out cryin again like that time in his truck, but she doesn't. She just stands there lookin heartbroken and pissed, her bones rattlin under her skin like she's bout to come apart at the seems. He doesn't know what to do, what to say, so he stands there with a ramrod spine and waits for her to talk again. _

_The cicadas fill the silence. _

_Shadows lengthen, the sun beats down, and the kid ain't talkin. The quiet gets to be too much for Daryl, his thoughts chaotic, and he grabs at one before he goes crazy. _

"_What'd ya wanna ask me?"_

_Audrey blinks, unshed tears clingin to her eyelashes, and looks up at him. For a moment, she looks lost, like she's forgotten why she's here, standin in front of him. Then, she looks guilty. Christ, the kid's the worst liar Daryl's ever met, could possibly be the worst liar left on the planet given the state of things. She wears everything on her sleeves, on her face, in her eyes. It's like a goddamn movie playin behind that emerald sheen. _

"_It's not fair of me to ask you," the kid starts after a moment. Daryl snorts cuz they both know how fair the world is. "Not fair to ask you to go in my place…but…but you can hunt and track. You're great at all that; we're all alive because of that fact." Something preens in Daryl's chest, something that only stirs when the kid says shit like this, but he shoves it down and away. "And I know that I have no right to ask you this, to ask you to put your life on the line like this, after all you've already done for me and after…after all I've taken from you." She whispers the last part like a secret, like it's painful, and Daryl realizes with a jolt she's talkin bout Merle. He can't, for the life of him, fathom how Audrey thinks __**she**__ took his brother from him. He wants to ask; he doesn't have the balls. _

_The kid takes a deep breath, and then she's starin straight into his soul, all emeralds and fire and pleading determination. "I know I don't have the right, and neither does anyone else, but please…please will you help look for Sophia? I…losing her too…after Jacqui and J…Jim and Am…Amy," she says the names like she's chockin on them, chockin on all that guilt. "We can't take another hit. __**I **__can't. The other men are heading out soon, but they're all city folk, like me," she smiles sardonically, usin his own insult, eyes still sparklin with tears. "If you were there too…"_

_She trails off, can't bring herself to make a definitive assumption. Daryl can tell by the look on her face she's feelin scared to death that the little girl is already dead and guilty for havin zero faith. _

_Now that he thinks bout it…don't he feel a little guilty too? He pictures the tiny girl, Sophia, all blonde hair and hazel eyes and bruises left over from her dead bastard of a father. And he pictures the way she flinched from him that day near the RV…and the way she cried as he yelled at her in the darkened hallways of that old folks home. Now that he thinks about it…those harsh words were the last thing he said to that thin, bird-boned girl. _

_His grandmother's words come back to him again. _

"_**Yer a Dixon boy. Got the same poison in ya."**_

_It makes him sick down to his very goddamn blood. _

_But then he remembers more recent words. _

"_**I know you aren't the man you try so desperately to make the others believe you are."**_

_**"I know that you're kind under that asshole exterior."**_

_**"You're my friend Daryl."**_

_Daryl's never had a friend before; he's never had no one but family and, most of the time, he never even wanted that. But he has one now, standin right in front of him, askin for his help. If Merle were here, he probably would of blown her off. If Merle were here, he wouldn't go out into these godforsaken woods lookin for some lost kid. _

_But Merle ain't here. _

_And, not for the first time, though he feels a stab of guilt, Daryl can't help but think…maybe it's for the better. _

_The memory of the kid's smile flashes through his mind, followed by the way she exhibits so much trust in him, even when he doesn't deserve it. Daryl wants to be deservin of that trust. He wants to be deservin of her faith cuz she's the first person, in his whole goddamn life, to put any in him. _

_Merle would call him a pussy. Merle can fuck off. _

_He takes a deep breath; he shifts his crossbow and clears his throat. Audrey glances up at him, and that preenin thing in his chest comes to life again. "Tch. At least," he begins, smirkin down at her. "Ya've finally accepted you city folk ain't got no business in the woods. If I didn't go out there, Walsh wouldn't know his ass from the goddamn sky."_

_It takes a second for the kid to realize what he's sayin. When it hits her, the idiot smiles so big, blood goes pourin down her chin, split wide as the fuckin Grand Canyon in the middle of her lip. _

"_Kid! Jesus fuckin—"_

_Daryl is reachin behind him, head averted, wonderin if he still has a rag tucked into his back pocket, so he doesn't see what happens next. The force in which Audrey collides with him sends them both slammin back into the 4x4 Daryl had previously been standin on. The bumper digs harshly into his lower back, and he grunts with the impact and the weight that's suddenly pressin against his ribs. _

_It's not until he hears Audrey gaspin, until he feels her arms tight against his spine, that he realizes she's __**huggin**__ him. _

"_Thank you, Daryl," she's wheezin. Her face is pressed against his chest, and his shirt is half unbuttoned due to the excessive heat, so he can feel her lips—wet with blood—on his sternum and collarbone and what the fuckin hell is happenin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"_

_Feelin tight and uncomfortable in his own skin, Daryl squirms awkwardly under her assault, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His cheeks are burin, like fire's beneath his skin, and his mouth starts movin so he can ignore the sensation. "Christ kid, ain't no one taught you bout goddamn personal space?" He says it gruffly, like he's angry, and the kid must think he is cuz she jumps off him faster than he can blink. _

_Her face is bright red underneath the freckles and bruises left behind by his brother. She shifts from foot to foot and wrings the hem of her t-shirt again. She won't meet his eyes, but Daryl wouldn't be able to even if she did. He settles for starin at the crimson drops slowly skatin down her chin but quickly has to stop cuz he's goin crazy and wants to reach out and wipe them off. _

_Still uncomfortable, he tightens his crossbow's strap around his chest and steps around the kid. "Gonna go see when we're headin out," he mumbles to her. Audrey nods, eyes still averted. _

"_Good luck and um…thank you again."_

_Daryl grunts and moves away but not before pausin long enough to say, "There's a clean rag in the right saddlebag on the bike. Ya can use it to clean up."_

_The last he sees of the kid is her still red face, green eyes piercin him as he leaves, and her thin wrist draggin across the ripped swell of her lower lip. _

_Oh and the gratitude in her gaze. That preenin thing in his chest won't let him miss that._

_#_

So here he is, hours later and nothing to show for it. Daryl tries not to feel hopeless, but somethin akin to the feelin is creepin up in his chest the closer the sun gets to the horizon. His eyes are in this goddamn constant loop: sky, ground, sky, ground, fading footprints to setting sun. He doesn't know which sight pisses him off more.

He and Grimes walk for bout another twenty minutes before a rustle has them droppin into a crouch. Daryl's heart jackhammers in his chest for entirely two different reasons. Is it a walker? Is it Sophia? A glance shows that Grimes is thinkin the same things, his eyes wild. Shaking, the cop brings his revolver back and cocks the hammer, just in case. Daryl tries not to snap at the man's stupidly. What's a gunshot gonna do but bring more geeks down on them?

Shifting the crossbow to one hand, Daryl reaches out and taps Grimes on the shoulder. When the cop meets his eye, Daryl motions for him to go left while he goes right. They'll surround whatever is makin the noise and deal with it like that. Grimes nods and follows his instruction, crouchin low and movin fast to the left. Daryl slinks his own way and soon…they find the source.

Daryl tries not to feel disappointed when he shoots the walker through the back of the head. He fails, for the most part.

"You think…you think this is why she ran?" Grimes asks as they draw up to the body. His face is pale under the dirt and sweat; he looks like he's gonna be sick. Daryl doesn't know the answer, doesn't want to entertain it, so he looks out into the woods for any sign of the girl near by.

The trees are silent and still, seemin to mock him. "Sophia!" he calls out into the stillness, the word awkward on his tongue. His voice comes back to him, echoed and isolated.

A noise beside him draws Daryl's attention. Looking down, he sees Grimes kneeled beside the walker, inspectin its hand of all things.

"The hell ya doin?"

Grimes doesn't look up as he says, "Checking for skin under the fingernails." He drops the walker's hand and flips it over to lie completely on his stomach. He exhales shakily after a moment. "It fed recently." It's not until he pries the thing's jaw open that Daryl notices the thick work gloves he's wearin.

And how Daryl suddenly feels short of breath cuz Grimes is sayin the condemnin words, "There's flesh caught in its teeth."

"_Please will you help look for Sophia? The other men are heading out in a bit, but they're all city folk, like me. If you were there too…"_

The kid had thought Daryl would make a difference. It seems he might not even matter after all.

"What kinda flesh?" he mumbles, stoopin down to look at the gory strings clamped between Grimes' fingers.

The cop presses his lips together, all the color gone from his face. But there's a steely glint to his blue eyes that surprises Daryl. "Only one way to find out," he responds and his voice is firm, unwaverin. Confusion burns through Daryl before he sees Grimes rip what is left of the walker's shirt off and reach for the small switchblade on his waist.

Daryl didn't think Grimes had the balls.

Maybe it's the awkward way the cop holds his blade; maybe it's the hesitation in his movements. Either way, all of the sudden, Daryl finds himself steppin forward and stoppin Grimes with a hand on his shoulder.

"Here, I'll do it," he mutters. Grimes blinks up in surprise at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, and Daryl scowls at the heat spreadin across the back of his neck.

Goddamn city folk, the hunter thinks to himself.

"How many kills you skin and gut in yer life?" he retorts. "Anyway, mines sharper so…" He jerks his chin to indicate for the other man to move away and, thankfully, Grimes does. And then Daryl is left standin over this walker, nothin between them but the stench of rotten flesh and the sound of his beatin heart.

Daryl's been huntin since he could basically walk. There is no way to count the number of kills he's made, skinned, and eaten. Huntin's probably his earliest memory, so Daryl doesn't even know what squeamishness is.

But he thinks he might be feelin it now, this churnin in his gut, this lightheadedness. He shakes his head, tries to shake it off, but it persists. After all, he's never had to fuckin gut a _human being _before. Or, at least, what used to be one.

_Please will you help look for Sophia?_

Daryl's lips twist and press together, creatin a blanched, determined line. Ain't nothin for it though. He's gotta do this.

With that thought in mind, he slides the huntin knife out of its sheathe, brings it above his head, and drives down. The knife slides through the walker's gut like butter, and Daryl feels his stomach jump for the first time at the sound of tearin flesh, the smell of decomp. He tries to think of it as any other time he's skinned a kill, tries to tell himself it's a buck or squirrel, rabbit, somethin else beneath him. It doesn't completely work, but he's not groanin like Grimes is, gaggin off to the side and tryin to hide it. Daryl tries to feel smug about that fact but can't completely manage it when Grimes hands him another pair of gloves and gestures for him to dig through the walker's now gapin gut.

He wants to down right refuse cuz who the hell does this asshole think he is, orderin him around like some bitch? But Daryl keeps his mouth shut cuz there are more important things at stake now. He can stow his pride for a minute, even if Merle never could. Steeling his nerves, Daryl also tells himself he won't seem a pussy in Grimes' eyes, in the eyes of anyone of this group. So, he pulls the gloves on and goes wrist deep without a second's hesitation, and if he's thinkin of the kid's green eyes or if she really did get his rag for that stupid split lip, instead of the slime between his fingers well…no one's the goddamn wiser.

"At least we know," Grimes says after they've found the woodchuck skull in the walker's stomach. He strips off his gloves and wipes at the sweat tricklin down his temple. Daryl grunts and does the same with his gloves, walks over to pick up his discarded crossbow.

"At least we know," he parrots.

They continue West, towards the settin sun. Daryl feels each moment like a grain of sand runnin through an hourglass; he feels like he's runnin out of time.

"Sophia!" he calls out at random intervals, again and again. It's always his own voice that answers back. He ignores the disquietin sensation in the pit of his gut and tells himself over and over, at least for the kid's sake back on the highway, that they _will _find that little girl, somewhere, tuckered out in a bush.

They will find her.

They will.

"_Thank you, Daryl! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"_

He has to.

* * *

><p>"Here's another case of drinks."<p>

I look up to see Lori set down a twelve pack of red Gatorade on the blazing, cracked asphalt. Her purple tank top is dark with sweat, and her hair is bunched up into a messy bun on the top of her head. There are dark circles around her eyes, and thin lines bracket the sides of her mouth. Seeing her, her exhaustion and weariness, guilt burns through my veins like fire.

"Thanks Lori." I haul myself out of the dirt besides the RV and walk over to the older woman, leaving the cache of toiletries I had been sorting through. My ankle throbs, but it's almost an afterthought. I've become accustom to the pain of bone on bone, uneven and grating.

Carl's mother nods and places her hands in the small of her back, stretching. "How many does that make?" she asks. It's half a sincere question and half perfunctory.

"Five cases of Gatorade, over thirty gallon jugs of water, about seven cases of random beverages, and an assortment of powdered drinks as well."

Lori cocks an eyebrow at me. "You memorized all that?" Although her voice is wearied and tired, her tone sounds impressed. However, I smirk and shake my head. Drawing up beside her, I flash the underside of my arm.

"Not exactly."

Lori laughs at the black scrawl of my handwriting smeared onto my skin. Sweat has made the ink run, so a lot of my list is illegible. I can still read most of it, but I don't really care either way. This is just a job to distract me. It's busy work. I _should _be doing something productive—searching for Sophia, scavenging at the **least**—but no. Here I am, sitting in the goddamn dirt, sorting through supplies while everyone works their asses off.

Grabbing one end of the Gatorade case, I drag it towards the stack of other beverages leaning against the bumper of a car not ten feet away. I straighten up with a wince once I'm done and go to put another tick mark on my arm. Six cases now.

At my back, Lori clears her throat and something in her slight pause after makes me tense. "So," she says and while others have stopped to talk to me in the past few hours, to take their minds off of what's happened, to make themselves feel better, I can tell this is something else. "How are you holding up?"

Such a vague, loaded question. I know she's done it on purpose. She wants me to ask what she's referring to: Amy, the CDC, my injuries, _Sophia. _

"I'm fine," I end up saying. _Fine, fine, fine, _my favorite, lying word. "Just...wish I could be out there helping." I gesture out before us, to the highway and the woods beyond. I'm vague on whether or not I mean the scavenging or the search. Unlike me, Lori asks for clarification.

"You mean searching." Those lines around her mouth deepen. "With Rick and…Daryl."

I grit my teeth at the way she says his name, and an abrupt irritation prickles under my skin. Not too long ago, Carl had sidled up to me and helped with the stock piling for a bit. He had asked about Daryl too, or more specifically, the ride I had with him on his motorcycle. With his hunched shoulders and a habit of brushing up against me, sticking close, I had thought Carl was just scared and upset over Sophia and looking for something to occupy his mind. Now, I'm thinking it might have been a ploy of his mother's. "I mean I'd rather be doing something useful," I reply diplomatically, distractingly. "It's getting dark."

Lori's eyes flicker to the setting sun, low on the horizon. Her face is illuminated by the darkening, orange glow. She crosses her arms in front of her and cups her elbows. "They'll be back soon," she says softly, as if to herself.

There's a sad quality to her voice, like she's resigned, so I feel the need to add, "With Sophia." Lori glances over at me and I lift my chin, hoping she can't see my pulse thudding in the hollow of my throat. "Daryl's an excellent tracker, and Rick's a good man. They won't leave her out there. They'll find her." I wonder if she can hear the way I'm trying to convince myself as I try to persuade her.

She nods but gives no verbal response. Without another word, she drifts off amongst the cars, bee lining to where Carl and T-Dog stand, drinking water and talking quietly. I sigh as I watch her go, spare one last glance at the tree line, before turning back to my task.

My expression must give something away because all of the sudden, Dale calls out to me. "Don't look so glum Audrey." I look up to see him wiping grease off his hands with a dirty rag. The RV's engine lies bare and open behind him. "You said it yourself, they'll be back soon!"

"Not glum Dale," I tell him. Following the footsteps I left behind, I go back to my spot on the grassy median, surrounded by scavenged items. "Just…frustrated."

_And scared and depressed and prayingprayingpraying. _

I plop down in the dirt and grimace at the way it jars me.

"There's nothing else you could have done," the older man tells me. I roll my eyes and try not to sound spiteful.

"I could have gone to look for her. Maybe with one more pair of eyes…"

"One more pair of eyes wouldn't have done any good if you passed out in the woods like you almost did here."

Dale is standing close to me now; his shoe brushes the scrapped curve of my knee. I stare at the ratty threads of his shoelace as I grumble, "I didn't pass out." My voice sounds petulant even to my own ears.

Sighing, Dale squats down, with dexterity that surprises me, and looks me in the eye. The rifle strapped to his back, sticking out over his left shoulder, makes the angle awkward but he manages it. "That's not the way I heard it," he says softly. "Glenn said he saw you collapse."

"Glenn was five cars away. He didn't know what he saw."

Dale blinks at my defensiveness. I feel yet another flare of guilt. "Well…regardless. You _were _dehydrated. I know I saw that. And besides…you need your rest." He pats my arm gently, at the elbow, just where the haphazard splint on my arm ends. I know he doesn't mean to sound condescending, but I hear it that way nonetheless. Maybe it's the lack of sleep; maybe it's my edginess over Sophia. I'm strung too tight, snapping at everything. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, I rub at my burning, tired eyes.

"Maybe I do." It's an admission but not a concession. "But that won't bring Sophia back any faster Dale."

Another pat, this time on my knee. "Making yourself sick won't either," he whispers. His brown orbs burrow into mine and for a second, just a _split _second, I'm reminded of Sensei. "So drink some water and take care of yourself. Sophia's going to need a good bed time story when she gets back, don't you think?"

Seems I had more of an audience than I thought last night. Smiling slightly, I nod my head. I still feel guilty, useless, frustrated…but maybe not as much as I used to. Dale smiles in return and stands up. "Thata girl," he crows. I chuckle, the sound just a little hollow, and watch as the older man returns to his Winnebago, banging around the insides and giving Glenn, who has just turned up, a few pointers in mechanics. The sight of my friend makes my chest feel suddenly tight and uncomfortable. I've fucked everything up between us; I know that. A part of me wants desperately to fix it…another part thinks maybe it's for the best.

That part of me thinks, "_The less friends, the less graves I will stand and cry over in the long run." _Because life is now a marathon, and I'm running out of endurance.

But then the first part, the part that remembers lounging beneath that tree in the quarry, that remembers laughter and bubble gum breath, thinks, "_What about Daryl? You're friends with __**him.**__" _It's almost accusatory.

I bite my cheek at the thought. Whatever I have with Daryl is…complicated. It always has been. But I've worked hard to get it and…I don't want to lose it. Not now, when I have so precious few people left. I rub behind my ear and my finger comes back black. I stare at the smudged skin and think _ashes, ashes, my friends all burn down. _

Some more time passes; the sun begins to sink low behind the horizon. Finished with my sorting, both arms a mess of smudged black ink, I'm about to get up and see what else I can do when Andrea walks up. At first, I think she's heading towards me, but then she veers to the right slightly and comes to stand right before Dale. The two of them are almost within arm's reach. By the way Andrea is standing, I'm suddenly wishing I were anywhere but here.

"Where's my gun?" Her tone is sharp and demanding. I see Dale flinch under it. "You have _no _right to take it," she continues. Glenn, who had been handing Dale tools, slowly steps back and slides away. His leg brushes my back from where I'm sitting on the ground, and I almost wish he would stop and haul me up with him. But he doesn't and I'm left in the dirt, listening to Andrea build up to a full-blown argument.

Dale, looking to avoid a fight, says, "You don't need that just now, do you?" He sounds like he's both begging and trying to convince her.

Andrea, however, will not be swayed and is unmerciful. "My father gave it to me," she retorts. "It's _mine._" She sounds like a child that has had her toy stolen: righteously angry and equally whiny. I blink at my caustic thought and feel somewhat ashamed: Andrea's never been anything but kind to me. Mostly, I just wonder as to what's going on. I'm not left in the dark for long though.

"I can hold onto it for you." Dale proposes it like an offer; I can see he won't take no for an answer.

"Or you can give it back to me!"

Dale sighs and Andrea scowls and then, all of the sudden, Shane walks up and stands right in front of me. "Everything cool?" he asks, hands in his pockets but eyes dark, alert, and watchful.

Andrea turns on him. "No!" she practically spits out. "I want my gun back."

"I don't think it's a good idea right now," Dale counters and _oh. _

Oh.

"Why not?" Shane questions because he doesn't get it. But I get it. So very, very much.

"Because I'm not comfortable with it." Andrea scoffs with scorn at Dale's response. I see where she is coming from; I understand because I've more than once butted heads with Shane, and even Dale, in the past over things that they were barring me from doing. But…I also understand Dale. Because I remember that he stayed behind at the CDC, only to convince Andrea to leave. I remember his face, his ardent pleas, the agony in his voice and eyes. I don't know what he had said to get Andrea out of that building—I was a little preoccupied at the time—but I know he had to have said something from the bottom of his heart. You only put your life on the line like that for someone you really care about.

"_So what does that say about Daryl?" _my traitorous mind abruptly whispers. I shove the thought away as quick as it comes and try not to dwell on it.

I sit on the ground, between all three of these adults, feeling like the kid caught in the middle of her parent's argument. I try not to draw attention to myself as Andrea glares and Dale pleads with his eyes; I try not to _breathe. _I don't want to be drawn into this. I don't want _that _conversation.

Shane shifts his eyes between the two, like judge and jury, weighing his verdict. After a moment, he finally says, "Well…the truth is, less guns we have floating around the camp the better." He's delivered his sentencing, but Andrea is quick, and angry, to appeal.

"You turning over _**your **_weapon?" she demands.

Shane really could have done without the condescending laugh he frames his, "No," with. Andrea looks like she's about to start in on him when he cuts her off again. "_But _I'm trained in its use. That's what the rest of ya'll need: proper training. Until that time, I think it's best if Dale keeps them all accounted for."

The fire in Andrea's blue eyes—I try not to realize they're Amy's but I can't help it and I suddenly can't breathe—could melt cement. "Really? He's taking all the weapons? Keeping them all 'accounted for?'" Her fingers come up to make sharp air quotations. Then, suddenly, one of her hands drops and jabs right in my face, a foot away from my nose.

Fuck.

"So, you're taking Audrey's swords away too?" she seethes. My joints lock together so fast they click. "You said all weapons right? And even if you weren't sticking to that _bullshit _lie, **she **stayed behind too. Why don't you but **her **on suicide watch?"

There's a moment of stillness, of silence, and then, as one, both Shane and Dale turn their heads to stare down at me. I see in both their eyes that Andrea's words have stuck a chord with them and, suddenly, I don't feel understanding of Dale at all. I'm fully sympathetic to Andrea because I darethem, I _dare _them, to take my blades, these last vestiges of my old life. They are one of the only things I have left to remind me of home, and they are the _only _things between me and certain death in the form of snapping jaws and ripping claws. I will be **damned **if I hand them over just because these people think I'm suicidal. For the millionth time, I am _**not **_a child.

(I was suicidal, but I'm not anymore. I don't think. That's beside the point anyway.)

Perhaps Shane remembers the last time he tried to order me around; perhaps he doesn't think I need a babysitter, for whatever reason. Doesn't really matter. All that matters to me is, that after some silent consideration, he says, "No. Audrey can keep her swords."

I don't know who is more surprised: Andrea, Dale, or me.

"What?! That's a complete load of crap. If she can keep her swords, then I should get my gun back."

"No, because I stand by what I said," Shane argues back. He does not flinch under Andrea's righteous anger. "Ya'll need training. Audrey doesn't. She's skilled with her weapon, just like I am, just like Rick is. Also, I haven't seen many accidents where I knife goes off and kills someone. Have you?"

Realizing she has lost, that there is no way to persuade these men, Andrea drums up the rest of her energy for one last glare before spinning on heel and stalking off. Shane and Dale watch her go, and it is not until both of their eyes are off me that I realize I've pulled my katana into my lap and am clenching it tight. I relax my fingers, and blood flows into my white, bruised knuckles.

Above my head, Shane mutters something to Dale, and then I'm watching his boots walk around the RV and disappear. I'm left alone with Dale, and that's not a place I want to be anymore.

Silence settles over the two of us, tense and uncomfortable. I can feel Dale's eyes on me even if I won't meet them; they bore under my skin and straight to the bone. The shift in the air, right before he opens his mouth to ask a question, I can feel it. So, it's just as he's inhaling that I rock to my feet, unsteady and sore but a moment away from making a run for it.

I am, unfortunately, a split second too late.

"Wait, hold on a second Audrey." Dale reaches out and puts a staying hand on my shoulder. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"I think Glenn needed help with something," I blurt out, not looking at the older man's face. I gesture out helplessly towards the cars. "I've finished sorting so—"

Dale's fingers tighten on the jut of my shoulder. It's not painful, but it makes me fall silent nonetheless. I brace myself for the inevitable. "Audrey," he starts, voice calm and gentling. The muscles along my spine clench in response. "I think we should talk for a moment."

And I really think we _shouldn't. _I don't say that though. I just purse my lips and keep my face resolutely turned away. If Dale thinks he can make me talk, he has another thing coming. I have perfected the art of stony silence, tested under more strenuous situations than seeming a little rude. Unless he's going to beat it out of me, and even then I still might not talk, my thoughts are my own. Dale is going to make a valiant effort, though, I can already tell. Before he can even start, however, Glenn's voice drifts over the hot, dusk air.

"Oh god. They're back!"

My head snaps around so fast that the bones in my neck pop like fire crackers. Dale's fingers tighten again around the jut of my shoulder, but I'm not stopping this time. I _can't. _Without a second thought, I jerk out of Dale's grasp, ignoring the way his nails catch in my shirt, ignoring the way he calls my name. I'm running without realizing it, a comical combination of a limp and sprint towards the highway rail. Glenn careens into me halfway there, but we don't even stop. I wonder if the same prayer is beating through our blood.

_SophiaSophiaSophia. Please let her be ok. _

We arrive to find the others already gathered: Carol stands apart, thighs pressed against the rail, straining towards the woods; Lori has her arms around the anxious woman's shoulders; and the others stand in a shallow semi-circle facing the trees. I skid to a stop besides Shane and wait with bated breath, eyes wide and chest heaving.

Rick is the first to mount the slope that leads up to the highway. He comes out of the dense grass and waist-high weeds like a survivor stumbles out of a car accident. He's covered in dirt and dried blood, drenched in sweat and water presumably from the creek near by, and the exhaustion in his face goes bone deep. I know that look: It's the look when you've reached your limit and can't go any further. By the way Rick stumbles, hands half out almost as if for balance, I would say he reached that point hours ago.

And that's when I know.

When I look into his eyes, see the shadows, the guilt, the exhaustion that is almost literally crushing him and making him unable to walk, I know. Even before Carol whimpers and asks, "Yo…you didn't find her?"

That sentence is like a punch to the solar plexus. It rocks me back on my heels and steals the breath right out of my lungs. My hand comes up, suspended in mid air, and I don't know if it's trying to clutch at my failing heart or to ward of Rick's next, condemning words.

"Her trail went cold," the cop explains. He's stepping over the rail now and reaching out as if to calm Carol down. The woman is about to come apart at the seams. "We'll pick it up at first light."

First light? _First light?! _Rick's words don't compute, not for me and certainly not for Carol.

"You can't leave my daughter out there on her own!" she cries. Her voice is splintering like glass across the floor. "To spend the night all alone in the woods."

I try not to envision that: Sophia, huddled against some tree in the dark, crying and scared out of her mind. I try not to think of her odds of survival, twelve years old and lost in a world where everything, quite literally, wants to devour her. I try not to entertain any of these thoughts. The tears that burn at the back of my eyes are evidence of my failure.

Suddenly, there's a rustles of grass, a crunch of broken glass underfoot. My blurry eyes trail from Rick's defeated posture a few yards back, and they find…Daryl. For just the briefest of moments, I had forgotten about the hunter. As Sophia's fate circled an endless drain in my head, I had forgotten about my friend. Seeing him now, beaten down, filthy and exhausted, with nothing to show for it…my guilt threatens to buckle me.

"Tell her Daryl," Rick abruptly says. All eyes go to the other man, still standing in the grass on the other side of the rail. He responds with a scowl and an uncomfortable fidget. "Tell her what you told me about tracking after sunset."

Daryl shifts under Carol's teary-eyed stare, tightening the strap of his crossbow and moving his weight from foot to foot. "Out in the dark's no good," he finally grumbles out, and, god, he sounds like he's about to pass out, all parched tongue and slightly slurred words. "We'd just be trippin over ourselves. More people'd get lost."

His voice is soft and almost gentle, like he's trying to cushion the blow that he's delivering to Carol. It's so different from his usual demeanor—gruff and bordering on hostile—that I see everyone else do a double take. Personally, I'm not all that surprised. I've seen this side of Daryl before, in flashes and quick bursts: in the mercy he showed me that first day in the woods; in the way he let me climb into his truck, onto his bike, under his skin; in the way he pulled me from the CDC and it's larger than life red numbers, ticking down to zero; in the way he looked for Sophia today when he was under no obligation to do so. I've almost always known that Daryl is more than meets the eye. Maybe now, others will too.

"But she's twelve!" Carol cries and there's such desperation in her voice, it starts bleeding into anger. "She can't be out there on her own. You couldn't find _**anything?!**_"

Daryl purses his lips under the weight of Carol's condemning stare and looks away. In the tumult of other emotions that are running rampart through my system—fear, despair, heartbreak—I still find the capacity within myself to suddenly feel so very guilty for the fact that perhaps the others, instead of seeing the good in Daryl, will now blame him for not finding Sophia. And it's my fault. I had asked him to go; I never thought about the consequences.

I never wanted to think that they wouldn't find Sophia.

Some more words are said. Rick pleads for Carol to understand that he had no choice in leaving Sophia behind, that he did it to save her. Carol sees blood on the hem of Daryl's jeans; they speak of a walker, shot down and gutted, and it's too much for Carol. She collapses against the highway rail and weeps, loud and heartbroken, even as Rick says they'll find her in the morning, says it over and over again; even when the former cop, surprisingly, commends Daryl's skill in tracking. Nothing mollifies the despairing mother, and, helpless, people start to break off. Rick, the first to return, is now the first to leave. He spares one last guilt-ridden glance at Carol, and then stalks off between the cars, legs jerky, shoulders high and tight. Shane follows him not long after, and the women flock to Carol, arms around her shoulders, patting along her back. I make no move to join them. Not because I don't feel sorry for her; not because my heart doesn't break for her. I just…I have no idea what to say. Comforting was never one of my strong suits. It was conditioned out of me a long time ago, out of necessity. Now, I'm just awkward with compassion, sometimes even unknowingly callous with it.

In more ways that one, I've become that boy I knew over ten years ago; I've become Adam Keene (1). I'm not 100% proud of that.

As everyone either drifts off, back to their previous tasks, or crowds in close to consol Carol, I see something move out of the corner of my eye. Paranoid and still high-strung, I track the movement without even thinking. Unsurprisingly, it's Daryl, slinking off while no one is looking, hoping to draw the least amount of attention. I cast Carol one last look, feeling ashamed that I can do nothing for her, before limping off in the direction that Daryl disappeared to.

I don't have to look for long; Daryl hasn't gone far. I can see him moving around his bike from where I'm standing, leaning against the front corner of the RV. Biting my lip, I wonder if I should just leave him be and talk to him in the morning. That thought is only entertained for a moment. I'm selfish, and I know it, but I least make the effort for a small pit stop before limping over to Daryl and his bike.

When I arrive, Daryl has his back to me. He either hasn't heard me coming—which I very much doubt since I'm not exactly quiet on my twisted foot—or he's ignoring me. I'm just contemplating leaving the items in my hand on the car next to me when something catches my eye.

The sun is setting and it's doing something funky to the shadows. Everything is distorted, stretched, warped. The asphalt is like a fun house mirror of inverted colors. But even with that, even with my exhaustion and pain making my vision blurry along the edges and slightly skewed, there is no way what I'm seeing is a trick of light or a figment of my imagination.

At first glance, it's the tattoos that draw attention. Stark and black, two demons perch on Daryl shoulder, all sharp lines and elegant swoops. One looks to be chasing the other, reaching up to grab its foot from the bottom. Some distant, miniscule part of my brain remembers the small devil on his inner arm and wonders at the macabre motif. The rest of my brain, the majority of it, is screaming silently at the rest of Daryl's back.

Scars.

Everywhere.

God, how could I have missed them before?

Thick and thin and every variation thereof, scars stretch across Daryl's back, from shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Most are thick and ropy, knotted. They are the type of scars that are left behind from a belt or a whip, something long that lays open your back with enough force. I should know. My own spine tingles in discomfort, in empathy, and I can't tear my eyes away from the horror before me. It's like I suddenly can't breathe, suddenly can't see anything but Daryl's bare skin, everything fading to black around him. My head pounds with the roar of my blood, and the world shifts under my feet. I taste blood on the back of my tongue as I gaze at the worst ones, situated on Daryl's lower back. Two short lashes that have to be at least two inches wide each, reaching from beneath the top of Daryl's pants to about four or five inches up his back. The skin is puckered and raised and god I'm suddenly nauseous with the thought of how much blood the hunter must have lost.

Mind whirling with half crazed thoughts of _who did this _and _how old was he _and _he's just like me, _I don't hear Daryl's quiet laugh. I do, however, hear him address me.

"Ya seem to be makin this a habit kid."

I start at the sound of his voice, hoarse and tired, and look up to see him starin at me over his shoulder. A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, and I scramble for a response.

"Wh…what do you mean?" I ask, voice cracking halfway through. I try to look confused instead of concerned. I try to lie and know, deep down, I'm horribly failing.

He snorts and turns around. There's a smirk on his face and amusement in his eyes when he says, "Showin up when I'm changin. Didn't take ya for a perv."

It takes me a moment to process his words, for my brain to stop screaming _scarsscarsDaryl'sscars. _When I realize what he's said, a small rush of blood infuses my blanched face. Embarrassment is a distant feeling, smothered by horror and this drowning sensation in my chest, but I cling to it like a buoy. I let it bob me to the surface of my mind and let it shove words off my tongue. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who decided to be an ass and bathe that day at the quarry. _I _was there first."

Daryl hums, and I suddenly see something in his eyes. For a second, I'm scared he's seen the emotions behind my transparent scowl, but then I realize the expression looks almost mocking, as if he knows something I don't, like he's privy to some secret joke. It's nothing angry, I don't think, but the look is gone before I can examine it further, and I'm left wondering if it was ever there at all. Something else suddenly tickles at the back of my mind—a flash of bare, wet skin and the taste of bourbon—but that too is gone as quickly as it came. Shaking my head, thinking I'm imagining things, I step closer and extend my hands. They shake and tremble, and I can't meet Daryl's eyes as I draw up to him.

"An…anyway, I brought you a couple of things." Plastic crackles between my fingers, and the setting sun gleams off the colored packages. "It's uh…noting much. Some food, water, and I thought you'd want to wash up a bit after…after all you've been through." The words feel like sand in my throat and suddenly take on new meaning.

Fingers brushing mine, the hunter takes the things I've brought for him. "Hmm," he says. "Jerky and protein bars. Dinner of champions." There's an undercurrent of amusement to his words, buried beneath the exhaustion, and I glance up at him through my lashes.

"Yeah well…it um…was either that or chips and tuna that's been baking in the sun for god knows how long."

Daryl grimaces and sets the food down on the car beside us before reaching for the last package I'm holding. He flips it over in his grasp and squints at the label. "Towels huh?" He glances up at me, and I shrug.

"Washcloths," I amend. My mind is still racing a million miles an hour, and I can barely keep up with our conversation. "I've taken enough rags off you. I thought I'd return the favor."

He grunts and tears open the package. The cloths are crisp and pristine, starkly white against Daryl's dirt streaked skin. He takes one and dumps the rest in one of his bike's saddlebags. The water I brought him is upturned on the cloth, but Daryl is careful about it, and only a quarter of the canteen is used. Pausing for a moment, he looks up at me.

"What?" he asks with a cocked eyebrow. "No soap?"

Something is his voice eases a bit of the tension from my muscles. I can breathe a little easier. My chest is still in knots, my lungs a size too small, but it suddenly occurs to me that Daryl's no different from who he was a minute ago. He's the same person. I just…I'm different or we're different or something like that. I know something that perhaps I shouldn't, but that doesn't mean I should treat Daryl any different. I always hated that, and something tells me so would he. So, instead of letting the apologies that had been building in my throat roll off my tongue, I roll my eyes at his cocky demand. It's a lot harder than it would have been five minutes ago. "Soap was in a different pile. I grabbed what I could on my way. I'm sorry Your Highness."

My voice is still off, slightly flat and higher pitched, but the hunter doesn't seem to notice.

Daryl smirks again and goes back to his task as if nothing. I look away as he starts to drag the wet cloth across his arms, scrubbing off layers of caked on filth. Around us, the cicadas hum their nightly melody: a steady vibration echoing through the air and singing the sun to sleep. My mind hums with a higher intensity, buzzing around and around in circles. Memories staring clicking into place, like a moving slideshow, things I didn't understand before that now make sense.

Why Daryl was so aggressive.

Why he hated people touching him or invading his personal space.

Why he was so adverse to personal relationships.

It had all been a mystery to me before, and I can't feel like a bigger idiot. How could I have missed this? How could I have not understood?

After all…Daryl and I are more alike than I could have possibly imagined. Looking back on it now, maybe I did know, somewhere deep down. Maybe that's why I was so desperate to try and befriend the hunter: I recognized a similar, damaged spirit and wanted to connect with it as Sensei had done with me. I'm such an idiot.

The minutes pass in silence as Daryl bathes and I get lost in my thoughts. It's dusk now, bleeding into twilight. The sky is a burnt orange, bruised with lavenders and deep indigos. Birds caw overhead, and I absentmindedly tilt my head back to watch them fly by. Their black bodies spiral down towards the dark line of the trees, and I can't help but trace their path. Eyes straining, I follow them until they are out of sight, lost in the shadows of the woods. The forest is dark, foreboding, and my mind abruptly and halfheartedly wonders how it must feel to be a twelve-year-old girl trapped in their depths, predators lurking around every corner.

The thought seizes my throat like fingers across my windpipe. Not even Merle's hand, as it tried its hardest to choke the life out of me, felt this painful. Swallowing against the pressure, I rip my eyes away from the woods and try valiantly to find anything else that will keep my attention. But there is no refuge and no salvation because everywhere are reminders that Sophia is _gonegonelostdead?—_the empty cars stretching to horizon, the huddled survivors consoling Carol, the stillness in the air, and the heaviness in my bones. Not even Daryl's revelation can eclipse the sudden, white-hot pain in my chest. I can't escape it. Because Sophia is _**missing, **_and here I am, doing _nothing_. Acid churns in my gut, and I find myself whirling on Daryl with thoughts that have nothing to do with our apparent shared past tripping off my tongue.

"Are you sure the search can't continue tonight?" The words are jumbled and hurried, frantic, _desperate. _They almost taste like blood coming up.

Daryl freezes mid-motion: his hand stops its harsh scrubbing movements along the jut of his collarbone. The blue of his eyes is sharp as he stares at me, and I see a flash of anger in them. "Ya think I was lyin before, kid?" he asks. His voice is low and deep. I wince at his accusation.

"No. No, that's not what I meant."

"What then? Ya think I'm just too goddamn lazy to continue?" This time, under his anger, I hear a note of hurt.

Reaching up, I try to run my fingers through my hair, but my wrist flares in protest. I hiss and bring my arm down to cradle it against my chest. My left hand comes up to scrub harshly against my face. "Daryl, you know I don't think that," I groan. "I just…Sophia is so young you know? And this world isn't exactly safe anymore. I'm just…" I trail off, unable to admit my feelings. "We've lost so many people already," I whisper instead.

I don't want to think of Amy, of _Jim, _of Jacqui even…but the memories come regardless, memories of smile and laughter, flashes of blonde hair and motherly hands as we put up laundry. Then, it's all drowned in waves of crimson and fire, soaring flames and fever, the white moon looking down indifferently from above. A lone tear trickles down my cheek, and I scrub it away, hoping Daryl hadn't seen it.

The hunter stares at me for a moment, his gaze hot on my face—I guess I wasn't quick enough—before he turns around and walks towards his bike. The scars shift on his back, twisting shadows, and I'm disoriented by my abject terror for Sophia and the way my heart's breaking over Daryl at the same time. "Yeah, well we ain't loosin her ok?" he calls back to me as he starts to dig in one of his saddlebags. The used rag, dark brown and filthy now, hangs on a handlebar. "It's one night. The kid's smart enough to climb a tree or somethin and just wait for us to find her in the mornin." Straightening up, he comes back towards me with something in his hand. My eyes, however, are fixed on his own blue orbs. The question that has been hanging on the tip of my tongue for hours comes tumbling off without my permission.

"Do…do you think we'll really find her?"

Daryl doesn't answer me for a moment. When he finally does respond, his eyes haven't wavered from mine. "I do," he says firmly. There is conviction to his voice, resolution. He does believe it. The terror I feel lessens, though the heartbreak remains the same. If Daryl, a realist like myself, believes…than I can find it in myself to follow his example. "Now quit makin yerself sick, take this, and sit the hell down."

His hand jabs out between us, brushin against my side. I drop my gaze and see that he is holding something white and small in the center of his palm. Confusion trickles through me. "What's that?"

"Pain pill. The good shit too: Narcos."

My head jerks up in surprise, and Daryl scowls at my expression, his thin, chapped lips all twisted up. "Don't give me any lip, kid," he growls out. "Yer gonna take this pill if I have to shove it down your throat."

I splutter at his ultimatum. "D…Daryl! Come on. I'm fine!" That phrase I'm so accustomed to; the lie that's ingrained in my blood and bones. "You should really save those for—"

"For what?" Daryl counters hotly. "For somethin more serious? Ya got a fuckin broken wrist, busted ribs, and a bum ankle. On _top _of all **that** shit." He gestures vaguely to my face, and my still tender nose throbs in acknowledgement. "The only thing more serious is a missin fuckin limb. Take the goddamn pill."

"I still don't think—"

"If ya take the pill, ya can go out and look for the girl tomorrow."

That shuts me up fast. Daryl almost smirks, and I want to punch him for his manipulation. "I'll make ya a deal," he says. "Ya take the pill and ya let me redo yer splints…and I'll take ya to look for the girl in the mornin."

Licking my lips, I glance down at the pill still extend between us. I can feel my resolve crumbling, my objections flaking away under the onslaught of _SophiaSophiaI'llfindSophiamyself. _

"What if Shane or Rick won't let me?" I ask. It's a rhetorical question pulled from the air. By the way Daryl snorts, he doesn't even take it seriously.

"Walsh and Grimes ain't the boss of me…and from what I've seen, ya don't take kindly to their orders either. Not if they don't suit ya."

Funnily enough, there seems to be something akin to admiration or pride in his voice.

It doesn't take long for me to decide after that. Not even verbally agreeing, I reach out and pick up the small white tablet between my thumb and forefinger. As Daryl drops his hand, I meet his eye and pop the pill in my mouth. I swallow it dry, and it tastes like chalk going down.

Daryl's eyebrows rise towards his hairline. "Ya pop pills like an addict, kid."

I shrug and feel the pill hit my stomach with a gurgle.

Daryl's hands are gentle when they undo the splint on my arm. We're sitting on the open tailgate of a rusted out GMC. Neither of us says a word as the highway descends into darkness and Daryl works in the last, fading rays of light. The hunter does scoff at my shoddy workmanship and crooked bandages. But before he can ridicule me, he catches sight of what lies underneath.

The skin of my wrist is an ugly eggplant color, splotchy and grotesque. It's still slightly swollen, and very, _very _tender. Darker lines are interspersed through the bruise, a distinct pattern, and both of us try to ignore the fact that they match the tread of Merle's boots. The skin isn't broken, but Daryl still doesn't like the look of it. As he finishes re-wrapping it—the splint now sturdy and perfect—he digs out another pill and shoves it in my hand, grunts that it's an antibiotic and to take it. I don't argue with the tone of his voice, and the second pill falls to churn in my gut with its brethren.

My ankle isn't as bad—still purple, still slightly swollen, but obviously not broken. It doesn't even look as bad as the first sprain I had, from falling out of that tree near Dalton. At one point, however, Daryl accidently presses on the darkest splotch of skin, a deep indigo oval, where Merle's steel-toed boot had made contact, and he jerks back like _I'm _the one that hurt _him. _He grows even more sullen and silent after that.

His hands, however, despite their calluses, become even softer in their motions. More than once, I have to quash the urge to reach out and touch him and that fact unsettles me. I tell myself it's only because of what I've learned. I tell myself it's only because I understand him now, or at least a part of him. I tell myself it's only because I feel bad for the horrors and pain Daryl had to have faced in his life to receive such scars. I tell myself all this…and ignore the way my mind keeps flashing memories of the two of us: Daryl and I down by the lake; Daryl and I laughing in the woods, me rolling in the dirt as he pokes at me with a homemade arrow; Daryl and I in his truck, leaving the CDC, me curled against his side; Daryl and I on his bike with my face pressed between my shoulders. All these things come to the forefront in my mind and I would be lying if I said it didn't trouble me.

When he's done, he grumbles for me to get some food and go sleep in the RV. I want to argue, but the pain pill has kicked in, and I'm feeling distinctly drowsy. I ask where he's going to sleep, and he says not to worry about him, to _get some fuckin rest for the morning cuz he ain't gonna slow down for me. _I stick my tongue out childishly, the motion sloppy as my muscles are quickly going lax, and he nudges me towards the Winnebago before turning around and slipping into the dark of the highway cemetery. Andrea catches me standing there, staring into the shadows, and shepherds me into the RV. Carol, Lori and Carl are asleep on the beds in the back; T-Dog tosses fitfully in the small hallway; Glenn sprawls on one side of the kitchen booth, snoring with his face pressed against the window, the bill of his hat tipped up; Dale snuffles in the driver's seat; and I can hear the quiet, deep baritones of Shane and Rick drift down from the roof. Taking the other side of the kitchen booth, Andrea, unsurprisingly, leaves me the passenger seat besides Dale. I curl up in the worn, upholstered chair as best I can, katana beside me and tanto still on my hip. The highway stretches out before me, dark and shadowed behind the smudged windshield. I stare at nothing and everything at once. Not long after I settle, movement catches my eye, and I see Daryl clearing out one of the vans two or three car lengths away. He disappears at intervals after that and always returns dragging something along the ground. He stops, after awhile, and climbs in the back of the van, shutting the trunk behind him.

It's not until the moon slides out from behind the clouds that I realize he's dragged walker corpses around the perimeter of his van. For a moment, I'm confused as to why. Then, I remember what T-Dog said earlier, as he was regaling his rescue to Carl.

"_Man I thought I was a goner when that geek found me. Then Dixon man…he came out of nowhere and stabbed the thing in the back of the head like it was nothin. And then he threw the body on me! I was kinda pissed until he flopped down on the ground and pulled another dead geek on him, just before the herd passed. They didn't even know we were there, not even with my blood all over the place!"_

It must have been the smell, he had reasoned: the stench of walkers—decaying flesh and putrid things—overriding the aroma of living humans. Daryl as always, was just taking precaution.

Sometimes, I don't even know why I worry about the hunter. If anyone was going to ride this apocalypse out, it's gonna be Daryl Dixon.

The thought, inexplicably, makes me happy.

The night drags on slowly; around me, everyone sooner or later is lost to sleep, as fitful and unfruitful as it may be. I continue to stare out over the highway, thoughts sluggish and erratic: Sophia's face and details from _The Giver, _Jim's last words, the burning CDC, Amy, blue eyes though I can't even tell whose they are, Daryl's scars and the demons he's inked into his skin, the demons he can't shake. Time passes like a glacier through the mountains. I wait for another herd to come shambling through the dark, or for Sophia just appear by the roadside like some miracle wished upon a star.

Sleep does not come.

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><p>The mornin dawns red, and Daryl feels like he ain't slept a wink. By the way the others stumble out of the RV, blurry-eyed and uncoordinated, he thinks they didn't get much shuteye either.<p>

Breakfast is a quick affair of whatever ya can grab and swallow in five minutes. It's mostly granola bars or candy, a bag of chips or, if ya were quick enough, some Pop Tarts that had been pulled outta the trunk of a mini-van. Daryl settles for a bottle of Gatorade and a bag of pretzels and barely has time to finish them before Grimes is gatherin them around the RV. It takes a while for everyone to finish their meals though, so Daryl leans against the Winnebago and checks his crossbow, tests the sharpness of his knife. It's just as he's thumbing the tip of his blade that someone sidles up to him, and Daryl doesn't even have to glance up to know who it is.

"Morning," the kid yawns. Her hair is askew in several different directions, a dark tangle that frames her pale face. Daryl smirks at the way she childishly smacks her lips and knuckles her right eye.

"Mornin. Ya eat already?"

Audrey nods and cranes her neck from side to side, sighin in relief at the resoundin pops. "Yeah, Carl split his Pop Tarts with me, and I snagged a small can of fruit." She pats her stomach, and Daryl finds himself starin at the sliver of skin that's revealed between the hem of her light bluet-shirt and the top of her cut-off jean shorts. He tears his eyes away a moment later and repeats to himself he was just lookin at the bruises stamped on her skin, just makin sure she was ok.

Somethin nasty in his head whispers Audrey's ribs are higher up than her belt. Daryl bites his tongue.

"What about you?" she inquires in turn. Gruntin, Daryl kicks at the trash by his feet and watches the Gatorade bottle clatter and roll under a nearby car. He doesn't respond any other way, too caught up in the way he skin suddenly feels too tight, but the kid gets it. She hums and leans next to him against the RV, pullin out her own blade—the short one from her hip—and sightin along the edge. They fall into an easy silence, which ain't exactly hard with the kid, but more than once Daryl feels her eyes on him, heavy and silent, like she wants to say something but can't seem to manage it. Daryl ain't surprised. The kid probably was warrin with herself, wanting to fill the silnce but not up for idle chit chat this mornin. Daryl can sense it in the way she's holdin herself—all high, tense shoulders and stiff spine; he can see it in the way she her eyes are bright and clear as she inspects her blades. Audrey's ready and focused and determined to find this little girl.

And apparently so is everyone else.

"Ok," Grimes calls. He's standin next to an old station wagon with flat tires and spreadin out an arsenal of weapons along the hood. The sun glints off the black handles and silver blades like beacons, beckonin to be picked up and utilized. Chinaman's the first one to snag one—a small, but sharp, handheld axe. With the exception of the blonde, who Daryl really doesn't care for, everyone else follows suit.

The blonde, however, is quick to complain. Daryl rolls his eyes and wonders if she ever does anythin else.

"These aren't the kind of weapons we need," she snaps when Grimes holds out a large knife to her. "What about the guns?"

"We've been over that." Everyone turns to Walsh, leanin against the RV. "Rick and I are carrying." Daryl thinks about the small revolver in his waistband and smartly decides against sayin anythin. Ain't no way in hell Walsh was takin _his _gun. "We can't have people poppin off rounds every time a bush rustles. Might bring another herd down on us, and then it's game over. So get over it, alright?"

Sputterin in anger, the blonde looks like she's bout to retaliate, when Audrey, unsurprisingly, steps up from beside him. She has her katana still in hand, twirlin it in what Daryl somehow recognizes as an irritated movement. There's sweat already beadin along her brow, and the early mornin light makes the dark bruises along her throat and around her eye stand out in stark contrast to her slightly sunburned skin. It's her eyes that stand out though, green and gleamin and down right _pissed. _Daryl should know. He's had that look leveled at him more than once.

"Can we move this along sometime this morning?" The blonde gapes at her, but the kid doesn't miss a beat. Her other hand, the bandaged one, jerks up to point at the tree line. "Sophia's still out there, you know? And the longer we stand here bickering about pointless shit, the longer she's out there _alone._"

"I'm _sorry_? Is our safety _pointless_?" the blonde hisses, findin her voice. She turns to face Audrey with her hands on her hips, and Daryl has this idiotic urge to step in front of the kid. He doesn't, though, just shifts on his feet and flexes his fingers along the strap of his crossbow.

Audrey laughs, and there's a dark edge to it. People share anxious glances; Walsh and Grimes share a guarded look. Even the blonde seems a little put off by the kid's tone. "What's so funny?" she snaps, defensive. Audrey shakes her head.

"Nothing. " But the other woman is angry now, all bright blue eyes and self-righteous ire.

"No. Tell me. What could _possibly _be so funny?"

Daryl can tell by the way the kid shrugs, the tilt of her head, that what she's bout to say ain't gonna be pretty.

"Nothing," Audrey repeats, but when the blonde goes to snap at her again, she cuts her off. "I just found it ironic that someone who tried to commit suicide a day and a half ago is concerned about _safety._"

The air goes dead silent; the cracklin tension puts the ciacadas to shame. No one's said it out loud; no one's addressed what happened back at the CDC. It's kinda like outta sight, outta mind. But the kid's dragged it into the open now, the festerin elephant in the room. Daryl finds it amazin that she could be so diplomatic in some instances and down right callous in others. He finds it kind of amusin. This means the kid's done with bullshittin around. He almost smirks.

"Now I get it," Audrey continues. "I do." She puts her hand over her heart and stares straight into the blonde's eyes. "I stayed in the CDC too, remember?" That almost smirk slips right off of Daryl's face, and his knuckles clench, bone white. "And a part of it was because of Amy." The blonde blanches as white as Daryl's knuckles. "But just because you didn't get your way back at the CDC doesn't mean you get to be an antagonistic, bitch here ok?"

"_Audrey!" _someone hisses, and Daryl glances over to see the boy's mother, Lori, glarin with her hands over her son's ears. Daryl reigns in the urge to snort cuz really? The damn world's ended, and she's concerned bout curse words?

The kid doesn't even flinch. In fact, she seems to gain momentum. Twirlin the katana in her palm, the sun glintin off the metal like molten silver, Audrey squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. "This isn't about you. This is about _Sophia. _She's twelve, and she's scared, and she's **lost. **I don't know about you, but I'd like to find her as soon as possible. I'm sure Carol does too. Now if you're too good for a blade," Audrey shrugs and gestures behind her to the RV. "By all means, stay behind. Dale would probably welcome the help. But if not, grab something sharp, shut up, and listen to Daryl's plan for the day. Alright?"

The silence that follows her ultimatum screams. No one says a word; no one even breathes. Audrey doesn't seem to notice though. She turns to Daryl as if nothin and gestures at the map Grimes has spread out along the hood, folded and yellowed and torn. Her green eyes find his, clear and expectant, and Daryl finds himself movin without his own volition, clearin his throat and pointin out the path they'd take today, mutterin how followin the creek was their best bet since that was the girl's only landmark. The others shift awkwardly but don't say anything and after Daryl's done talkin, they all drift off, rummagin through packs, checkin their weapons, anythin to avoid the kid and the blonde's murderous expression.

"Ready?" Audrey asks him. The two of them haven't moved away from the station wagon, still lingerin over the map and the empty cache of weapons. There's nothin different in her voice, nothin off bout her expression. She gazes straight into him, and while Daryl outwardly shakes his head at her mood swings, somethin like concern unfurls in his chest. The last time the kid acted so harsh…Daryl shoves away the thought and resolves himself to not let Audrey out of his sight today.

"Yeah kid. I'm just gonna grab some water. Meet ya by the rail."

She nods in assent and wanders off towards the road's shoulder. Daryl watches her walk away, watches how the young boy slides up next to her, watches how she smiles down at him and ruffles his hair. That disquietin feelin squirms in his chest again, writhin like a nest of angry snakes. He tries to ignore it, like he ignores most of the other confusin sensations the kid brings out in him, but an overheard conversation makes it impossible.

It's that fuckin blonde again. Desperate and hard headed, she's bypassed Walsh's rule entirely and gone straight to the source, straight to her gun. The old man in his stupid, floppy hat, tries to ward her off, calm her down, but her words are razor sharp and bite deep. Daryl feels their sting from nearly ten yards away, frozen in place, canteen slippin through his sweatin fingers.

"Jenner gave us an option," she gritted out. There's less than a foot of space between her and the old man. Her words are hissed quietly, but they carry through the still air; they careen straight into Daryl's ears and embed themselves in his skull. "I chose to **stay**_._"

And suddenly, it ain't only the blonde's voice he's hearin.

"_I'm not going. I'm…tired Daryl. I told you. Just so __tired."_

"You chose suicide," the old man argues back. His voice is frantic, desperate. Daryl knows what his words taste like and hates the fact that he does.

The blonde—Andrea, his mind supplies, so close to the kid's name—is hateful in her response. Her lip curls, her eyes cut, diamond hard and blue. Her words are practically acid when they ooze out, "So what's that to you? You _barely _know me!"

Daryl has to fight the desire to pinch himself cuz fuckin shit this is hittin too close to home to be real.

The old man sighs, eyes pleadin, and starts, "I know Amy's death devastated you," and Daryl can't help but think of dull green eyes, a distant expression, hysterical laughter and nonsense speech. Andrea ain't havin it though, is hateful and wants it to show.

"Keep her out of this. This is _not _about Amy. This is about us, you and me. And if _I _decided that I had nothing left to live for, who the **hell **are you to tell me otherwise? To **force **my hand like that?"

Daryl flinches beneath the weight of her words, and they ain't even directed at him. But they could have been; they still could be. He tries to shake off the feelin, but it eats at him, acidic, corrosive. The CDC looms in his mind, all big red numbers, tickin down to zero, and Audrey's voice, louder than the damn explosives that knocked him on his ass.

"_I've been rolling with the punches all my fucking life and I'm done! Daryl, my family is dead. So are all my friends. What's the point?! Give me a goddamn reason!"_

But no…Daryl did give her a reason. Embarrassingly and he'll never speak bout it again but…he gave her a reason; she came with him. For her Ma, obviously, but…Daryl bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood and does not finish his thought. The kid's alive and kickin; that's all that matters.

He is happy to leave it at that, half turns to do as such, but the arguin pair ain't. Not in the least. Daryl hates them for it, hates that he hears their next words.

"I saved your life," the old man states, bold as brass with a touch of humility. Andrea cuts him off at the knees, and Daryl feels his own legs tremble.

"No, Dale," she says. Her voice breaks around the words, shattered glass and a broken life. "I saved _yours. _You forced that on me. I didn't want your blood on my hands, and that's the _**only **_reason I left that building."

Doubt seizes Daryl like a hand around his throat, but he finally regains use of his legs. Startin forward like a colt on new legs, he stumbles towards the highway rail, leaves the blonde and old man and their words behind. They cling to him, however, whispers at the back of his mind, tuggin at his sleeve. He draws up to the kid without realizin, and his first thought is, "_Does she feel the same?" _

Does she blame him? Does she hate him? Does she wish she never let him drag her out?

Does she still want to die?

That last question is the one that makes him interrupt the conversation she's still havin with the boy, makes him grunt that they're leavin and nudge her over the railin, even as she's tryin to say some last words over her shoulder to Grimes' brat standin wide-eyed on the asphalt. It drives him straight into the woods, people scramblin to catch up, and forces him to glance back every five seconds to make sure the kid's still there, still livin, still kickin.

Audrey meets his eyes with a question in her own green depths, head tilted, hair fallin to the side and flashin that scar he gave her along the temple, three inches long and shiny. Daryl thinks about that bolt—his bolt—that almost took her life that first day; he thinks about his brother who almost finished the job. Subconsciously, he had thought maybe he was levelin the playin field by savin her life, literally pullin her out of a burnin buildin. He thought maybe, just maybe, he was settlin some of his debt.

Now, he ain't so sure.

Now…

"Daryl? You ok?"

"Fine," he grunts out, the kid's favorite goddamn word. He doesn't meet her eye, doesn't see her bewildered, concerned glance. "Let's get goin. We only got so much sun left."

He plunges into the under brush without another word and forces himself to concentrate on the lost girl, not on the one burnin holes in the back of his neck.

He doesn't quite succeed.

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><p><strong>(0) The chapter of this chapter is taken from a song of the same name by the artist Hammock. All their songs are beautiful and were the soundtrack to this chapter.<strong>

**(1) See beginning of chapter 19 for reference **

**_A/N: _Well...there you have it. I'm not very happy with this chapter (I swear I must have deleted it 5 or 6 times) but I thought you guys deserved SOMETHING. I hope it was adequate enough :/**

**If you noticed, I'm slowly but surely adding some breadcrumbs of attraction that will lead to Daryl and Audrey's relationship. If you didnt notice, then this chapter was worse than I thought. **

**That's all for now! I apologize a million more times again (bows in shame) and hope some of my readers have stuck around. As always, ****if you have an questions, comments, confusions, or concerns ( or just want to yell at me) feel free to PM me and I'll address them accordingly! :)******

**Until next time, **

**~Shadows **


	28. Tell Me the Lie I Need to Feel Safe

**Wow. So. **

**I don't know if anyone is still around to read this story, and I am so sorry for that. This past year and a half has been incredibly rough for me. I struggled with some health issues (both mental and physical) and a lot of other personal shit. Writing has been almost non-existent, except in random small bursts, and I could never find the motivation to come back to this story for some reason. I had hit a major wall. **

**But recently I've received some messages about people still asking for updates on this and I've been having a good month so I finally found the drive to post a new chapter. Honestly, most of this chapter has been sitting on my computer since this time last year. And I actually wanted this chapter to be a lot longer but I thought that posting something a bit shorter would prompt me to post sooner. I hope this strategy works. **

**Thank you to any and all readers and reviewers. Truly, you gave me my inspiration back. **

**Disclaimer: I own jack shit. **

**Warnings: usual gore and language**

**Ps: Chapter title is a quote by Louise Gluck in the forward of Richard Siken's book Crush. (Everyone should read this book I am serious; I have never found more beautiful poetry.)**

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><p><strong>Chapter 28: Tell me the lie I need to feel safe, and tell me in your voice so I believe you. <strong>

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><p>The going is slow, like the Georgia heat and the Georgia sun and the bugs drowsily floating around us. It's almost as if the very air is being antagonistic: it pulls on my limbs and eyelids, making them heavy, lethargic. I shake my head for the sixth time in as many minutes and concentrate on the footprints stretched out before me, careful to step in their indentions and make as little noise as possible. Behind me, people whisper quietly, a nervous chatter. I feel eyes on my back.<p>

"Hey kid!"

I look up to find Daryl scowling at me. "Keep up." His words are clipped and I quicken my pace. When I draw up to him, I see the sweat sliding along the side of his jaw and the red indention the strap of his cross bow has dug into his arm. We've been at this for over an hour and, already, fatigue is starting to creep into all of our bones.

"Sorry," I mutter when I'm close enough. Salt trickles into my eye, and I turn my face to wipe it off on the sleeve of my shirt. "Just tryin to give you some space to work."

Which is kind of true. But mostly, selfishly, I was just lost in my own head, in my own dull flares of pain. My ankle clicks with every step. I try not to think about it.

Daryl hums but doesn't meet my eye; instead, his gaze is trained slightly down and to my left. I frown at the look on his face, follow his line of sight. "What? Is there something on my shirt?"

Shaking his head, Daryl jerks his chin at me. "Lookin at your stitches," he explains. "Don't hurt, do they?"

I glance down at the neat row of black lines, imbedded in slightly inflamed skin. Honestly, I had forgotten all about them. So much has happened since Shane accidently shot me, since Daryl sewed me up. And pain is kind of my constant state of being now. A dull ache in my upper arm doesn't even register.

"I'm fine, Daryl." By the way the hunter purses his lips, I can tell he doesn't believe me. Wanting to divert the conversation, I look back out into the woods, gesturing to the ground with my free hand. "Anyways, have you seen anything? People are getting kind of antsy and, to be honest, so am I."

Daryl casts me a long, disgruntled look but takes the hint all the same. He starts to walk again, and I fall into step beside him. "Not much," he admits at length. He sounds almost guilty when he says it. "The creek's not far from here, but I don't think Sophia's come this way."

His words sit like a rock in my chest. Chewing on my lip, I stare at Daryl's profile. "No signs of walkers though, right? That has to count for something."

I'm trying to look on the bright side, and maybe Daryl is too because he nods and says, "Nah, no geeks either. I might be wrong about the kid though. She could have gone back to the creek, stayed right on the water's edge, and veered into the woods farther along." He glances down at me, and there is steeled resolve in his clear, blue eyes. "We'll find her soon. Trust me."

"I do," I say, and Daryl looks startled. His jaw falls open, works silently, clicks shut. I tilt my head at him, but before I can ask what's wrong, something over my shoulder seems to catch his attention. His eyes suddenly narrow, then go wide, and he's brushing past me before I can stop him. "Keep low. Keep quiet," he hisses. Confused, I turn and follow his line of sight—to a small, yellow tent, half hidden in the brush. My heart seizes, breath rattling in my throat. Quickly, I pass the message on to the others and as the rest of us try to catch up to Daryl, I hear Carol whimper, "Do you think she's in there?"

Something lurches in my chest. I hope she is. I _pray _she is.

She isn't, in the end.

Daryl comes out of the tent coughing, gagging on the smell of rotten flesh. The stench reaches me, five yards away, and my stomach turns violently. "Ain't her," he manages between hacking bouts. "Ain't her."

The group sags, in relief, in despair, and I'm caught in the line between.

"What's in there?" Andrea asks cautiously. Her voice is hesitant, like she wishes she could take the question back.

Shrugging, Daryl tugs at the hem of his shirt, wiping his face against the fabric on his shoulder, as if to rub away the scent of death that follows us so. He's the picture of nonchalant, but I catch the glint of metal at the small of his back. No one else sees the gun, and I don't mention it. "Some guy. Been dead awhile. Looks like he did what Jenner said and opted out." There is something suddenly jagged about his voice, sharp and rough, broken glass and gravel. He's glaring at Andrea. "Ain't that what he called it?"

Andrea scowls back at him. She's still pissed about Dale, about Shane; she's itching for a fight. "You trying to say something?"

I suddenly remember their argument at the retirement home, Andrea's condescending tone, and Daryl putting her in her place. They never were big fans of each other, but now they are downright hostile.

"It ain't Sophia," Daryl says. He looks away from here like she isn't even worth his breath. "That's all I know."

Sneering, Andrea looks on the edge of retort before she's cut off.

By the sound of church bells.

I whip my head around as someone gasps. People begin to mutter, turning from side to side, trying to locate the noise. My blood starts racing a moment before Rick points off to the right and ducks into the brush. Shane is quick to follow, everyone else hot on his heels. I shove away from the tree I had been leaning against, but my leg throbs harshly in protest. My ankle gives under my weight. Cringing, I falter, taste blood on the back of my tongue.

"Come on kid." Daryl is suddenly by my side, nudging me gently forward. Sweat slides down the sharp slope of his nose, and I can see how tired he is. But he's not stopping, and it seems he's not about to let me stop either. He doesn't coddle me, doesn't pause for pity. His elbow is a persistent pressure in my side and, focusing on that, I stumble through the woods, faster and faster, the taste of pennies sliding down my throat. The pain is almost overwhelming as I clear logs and large roots. I don't pay the agony half a thought.

_SophiaSophiaSophia. _It's a mantra pounding through my bones, replacing my heartbeat, erratic in my veins. _Please be Sophia. Please let her be safe. _

God knows how long later, Daryl and I break the treeline. I'm heaving painfully, half bent over with spots swimming before my eyes. Before us sits a church, small and white and quaint. An even smaller graveyard surrounds it, gray stones cropping up through the waves of dying grass. The rest of the group crowds a handful of yards away. Rick and Shane are arguing. Through the roar of blood in my ears, I can hear their raised voices.

"That can't be it, man! Got no steeple, no bells."

"It has to be!" Rick snaps back. He sounds wild, hysterical. He takes off at a dead sprint before Shane or anyone else can stop him. Groaning, I fumble forward, pushing Daryl in front of me.

"Go," I grunt. "They'll need…help." My lungs are still on fire; there's a stitch in my side that won't quit. Daryl frowns, but I shove him again because Rick has almost reached the church doors and what happens if there are walkers inside?

_What if Sophia is inside?_

"Grimes' got enough help," Daryl scowls. He steps back towards me, reaches out for my arm. "Yer the one that needs—"

"I'll help her."

Carl appears abruptly, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His blue eyes are pale and frightened, but he slips under my arm without much hesitation, takes my weight like he's not half my size. It's only when he's pressed against my ribs that I realize he's shaking.

"I'll stay with her," Carl repeats. He squares his chin at Daryl. "I can't…do anything else but I can get Audrey to the church." His voice quivers, and his fingers dig harshly into my opposite hip.

Daryl looks like he wants to argue but bites back whatever he's going to say. "Just don't let her do anything stupid," he grits out before he turns and runs as fast as he can for the church, crossbow held high, locked and loaded. Something in me wants to feel indignant at his comment, but I can't find the energy to do so.

"Where's your mom, Carl?" We start making our way slowly across the field; the pain pill Daryl had given me has worn off. My body protests each breath, and if it weren't for the adrenaline, I'd drop.

The boy lifts the arm not around my waist and points at the white building in front of us. Everyone else is still crowded around the doors, Daryl now included. Squinting, I can just make out Lori's thin figure towards the back of the group. She has her arms around Carol's shoulders, but her head is craned back to look at us. It's too far to see her expression, but I can imagine the worried and frightened curve to her mouth well enough, needing to keep her son in her sights.

"She said to come help you. I just think she didn't want me to…in case something happened…"

I look down at Carl, but he's staring resolutely forward, guiding us through the headstones, pace quickening as we watch Rick and Daryl shove open the church doors from afar. My heart rate ratchets up, and Carl and I start a hilarious rendition of a three-legged race—half sprint, half stumble. There are no screams, no shouts, no wails. I take that as a small comfort as I trip again and again, Carl dragging me along.

We stutter up to the church steps just in time to see the last walker fall, blood splattering the wooden pews. I lean against the doorframe, catching my breath as Lori immediately pulls Carl back to her side. Carol shoves past me, head on a swivel, searching for her daughter. I don't need Rick's scream of _"Sophia!" _to know the little girl is not here. The church is small; it's made up of only one room. There is no place for Sophia to hide.

"I told you it was the wrong church, Rick," Shane pants. Black blood is caked along his neck. His voice is quiet, pitying instead of condescending. "It's got no steeple. No steeple, no bells."

Carol whimpers but, as if to prove him wrong, the clanging sound of bells starts up again. Louder. Closer. _Right above us. _I spin around and half fall back down the steps, craning my head up, looking for the steeple we might have missed. There's nothing but a plain, wooden cross above us but the sound persists, jarring deep down into my bones. People sprint passed me, rounding the side of the building. Daryl brushes my arm as he goes by, not stopping but his eyes scan me for new injuries. I turn the corner and Glenn's tearing at a box mounted to the siding, cutting the wires that lead up to a speaker near the roof.

The ringing cuts off abruptly, and we are left with nothing but silence.

"A timer," Daryl pants out. He's out of breath too, dark red blood speckled along the hem of his shirt and the bottoms of his jeans. "Damn thing's on a timer."

The reality of the situation hits us all at once. I've never seen so many stooped shoulders, no many downcast eyes. It's like the weight of the world is crushing us all equally, slowly, painfully.

_Sophia's not here. _

Most everyone goes back inside, for respite from the heat, for a place to sit, for absolution or prayer or whatever it is they need. I drift back towards the graveyard and drop into the grass with a pained grunt, my back against a tombstone. The sun is hot on my face, and I close my eyes, concentrate on breathing. Cicadas hum around me—always and perpetually humming, a backdrop to the nightmare I'm forever living. It's unfair; the world is so unfair.

"That ain't nothin new."

Cracking open an eye, I find Daryl standing over me. He has a hatchet in one hand and a bottle of water, half extended towards me, in the other. I snort at the visual. It's so _Daryl, _through and through. Part vicious survival, part shy kindness. I take the water with quiet thanks.

"I didn't mean to say that out loud," I tell him as I take a sip. The lukewarm liquid slides down my throat. "But I'm aware of how _not _new it is." I give the water back to him.

Daryl almost smirks as he perches on a headstone right in front of me. "Still talkin to yerself, kid? Ya really are goin crazy."

I roll my eyes at him, but my lips are twitching. "Aren't we all?" I murmur. Daryl only hums in response.

The two of us sit in silence for a while. In the distance, I halfheartedly watch as Lori and Shane argue in hushed tones outside the church. Lori storms back inside before long, and Shane just watches her go. Somewhere deep inside me, I feel bad for the former cop. I remember how he looked at Lori and Carl these passed couple weeks. He loves them. But they're no longer his to love. Talk about unfair.

I turn away from the church, my gaze skipping around for a distraction before it falls on the headstone between Daryl's thighs.

_Declan Hale_

_1968-2002_

_Beloved husband and son._

A memory crops up in my mind, sudden and unbidden, and the corner of my mouth jerks up like a puppet with its strings being pulled. "Hey Daryl?"

The hunter looks away from the tree line he had been studying, eyebrow cocked. There's dirt smeared across his cheek and sweat in the hollow of his collarbone. His shirt hangs half open and he's even streaked with dirt there, sternum grimy beneath the sparse smattering of hair. For some reason, my cheeks heat up at the sight, but I push it aside for the moment.

"Do you remember the day we met?" I ask instead.

Daryl actually, honest to God _laughs. _He doesn't throw his head back, and he doesn't fall over, but it's a good laugh, a little hysterical around the edges. "Do I remember?" he says. His blue eyes find mine and hold them, unwavering, firm, honest. "Fuck, kid. How could I forget? Ya broke my goddamn nose." He rubs at it now, along the small scar on the bridge.

"You shot me in the head," I remind him, but without the anger the words originally came with. That seems so far away, so long ago. I don't even have the will to recall that anger.

Grunting, Daryl takes another swig of water. "Barely grazed ya," he mutters. But his voice is quieter, more subdued. His eyes flit over to my temple, to the raised skin there, and I don't miss the flash of guilt. I frown because I didn't mean for that; I didn't mean to blame him. I stick out my leg and brush the side of his ankle.

"Yeah I know," I tell him. "You're a shit shot, Dixon."

He scowls at me, and I bite my lip—uncaring of the cut his brother left behind—to stop my lips from twitching.

"Tch," he grumbles, but he pushes his leg out, leans into the slight pressure of my foot. By the way he rolls his eyes, I can tell he knows I'm teasing.

"Anyway back on topic. Do you know why I was standing by the creek that day?"

"Let me guess: to get some water?"

I stick my tongue out at his attitude. "Funny…and also true. That's why I went to the creek _originally_. But I'm talking about the _moment_ you saw me, right before you shot me. Know why I was standing there?"

Daryl blinks and slowly shakes his head. His eyes are doing that strange thing again, flickering, like something is hiding beneath their surface. Something I can't see, can't reach. All of the sudden, a part of me wants to take Daryl to pieces, strip away the walls he keeps erecting. I know it's because of what I saw last night, his scars. I know it's about Sophia too, my mind latching onto anything other than the thought of her fate. I know it's an odd combination of a million fucked up things in my life. I no longer care; Daryl is my friend. He makes me feel…happy is a strong word but I can't think of an alternative. Happy. The concept is so strange now.

Pushing myself up with a barely restrained wince, I limp forward. Daryl follows me with a confused expression but doesn't stop me when I sit next to him. Not meeting his eyes, I half turn to slide my fingers up the cross that rests against our backs. The rough stone abrades my skin.

"There were graves there. Along the creek." I close my eyes, and I can see them: five, wooden little crosses, haphazard, shoddy, _loving. _The last resting place of the Harris children."I came across them when I was looking for water. Five of them, all strung out along the elevated bank. They were just some wood strapped together in the form of crosses, names and ages carved into the faces in shaky handwriting. I probably shouldn't have even stopped but…they were kids, Daryl." I take a deep breath and open my eyes, lay my temple on the cross despite my ribs protesting the twisted position. The hunter's face is barely a foot from mine. "All of them were kids," I whisper. "One of them was even Sophia's age."

Daryl parts his lips and inhales. From this distance, I can see how his pupils contract, can see the way his heart stutters in the hollow of his throat. He exhales and I breathe it in. Clenching my jaw, I look away from him, look out over the cemetery. "I was paying my respects to those 5 strangers—those children—when you came loping out of the brush."

It's silent for a moment. I wonder what Daryl is thinking, how he's processing this information. I don't look back at him though; instead I train my eyes on the farthest point in the distance and try to measure how long I can go without blinking.

"I thought you were moaning."

Just as I was reaching a minute and a half, Daryl's comment makes me blink purely out of shock. I can't help but face him. "W…what?"

The hunter shrugs, but there's some color along the ridges of his cheekbones, in the tops of his ears. _He's blushing. _"That day…I thought you were a walker, all dirty and covered in dried blood."

"Hey. It's not like you were exactly _clean _Da—"

"Ya gonna let me talk?"

I scowl but shut my mouth with a click. Daryl waits for a moment—eyebrows raised—but then he continues.

"As I was sayin, ya looked like a geek from a distance, and I couldn't see yer face. You were shufflin about and I thought you were moanin, that god awful fuckin sound. I couldn't hear ya clearly over the creek." He shrugs again, eyes skittering away. "And if it walks like a geek and sounds like a geek well…"

This time, I'm the one that laughs. It doesn't sound right; it rings hollow, feels rough as it leaves my throat, but maybe Daryl can't tell because he's shaking his head and smirking. When I'm out of breath, ribs pulsing, I lean against the cross again and Daryl settles back as well. If we inhale at the same time, our shoulders brush.

Time passes. By the church, people begin immerging. Even for this distance, they look tired, defeated. My chest aches, and it has nothing to do with broken ribs.

"I wonder," I muse quietly, thoughts dancing at the back of my throat, rattling to life. In my peripherals, I see Daryl glance at me, and I couldn't stop the words if I wanted to. "I wonder if, soon, I'll be paying my respects to S—"

"Shut up." Daryl suddenly jerks to his feet and stalks around to stand right in front of me. His eyes are no longer pale; they are aflame. His jaw is set, his knuckles clenched white on the crossbow strap around his chest. He crowds in close, and I'm abruptly level with his chin. The smell of sweat and dirt and _anger _overwhelms me. I'm so thrown for a loop that all I can do is stare up at him with wide eyes.

"Ya hear me? Just shut up. Stop talkin like that little girl is already dead cuz she _ain't," _he snarls. His fury surprises me. "We're gonna find her, and she's gonna be just fine. And she's gonna need ya when she gets back so…don't you go checkin out again."

He gnaws on the side of his lip, like he's chewing back more words, but he just stands there and stares at me. Challenges me._ Don't you go checkin out again. _I wince at his words. I didn't mean to, didn't mean to detach again, but it's hard. It's hard because…

"I'm scared."

The whispered admission falls from my tongue like a stone. It's out in the open and…I realize it's true. I _am _scared. I'm fucking terrified, have been since Sophia screamed out on that highway. I just couldn't admit it, even to myself. Blood rushes to my face, and I'm suddenly embarrassed. Embarrassed by my weakness. Because I'm supposed to be strong. _Ninja Audrey _with all the right answers, protecting everyone. But I'm failing; I keep **failing **and people keep dying or going missing and I can't stop any of it.

I squeeze my eyes shut before the tears can come. The darkness helps; I can ignore things in the dark, focus on the sound of my breathing, the uneven beat of my heart.

From somewhere in the darkness, Daryl sighs. "Being scared…ain't nothin to be ashamed about, kid. Yer human. We all are. We do the best we can. And…" he trails off.

I open my eyes. "And what?" I hate how fragile my voice sounds.

Daryl purses his lips and takes a step back. He holds out his hand, pulling me carefully to my feet. His calluses catch on mine and something tingles beneath my skin. "And…we fight," he finishes quietly. He presses the hatchet he carries into my hand. "We fight to live and we fight for our own and we don't stop cuz the world ain't fair."

In this moment, Daryl sounds a lot like my sensei; he even sounds like Adam Keene, the boy I knew oh so very long ago. I trusted those two then…and I trust Daryl now. His words settle over me like a balm, soothing, calming, fortifying.

"The world never stops moving," I mutter absentmindedly, repeating Adam's words a decade later, trying to re-instill them in my bones. "Not for anything. And neither should we."

Daryl smirks, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "There's the stubborn kid I know." His arm knocks against mine, his version of an awkward pat on the shoulder. Somehow, it feels so much better. "Now, come on. Looks like the others are waiting for us." He moves to step around me, but I stop him with a hand on his wrist.

"Think you might need this," I say. My mouth falters along the ghost of a grin as I press the hatchet back into his palm. "After all, you're such a shit shot. Need all the help you can get."

Rolling his eyes, Daryl takes it back from me and, after a second's hesitation, hits me in the back of the thigh with it. It doesn't hurt, he barely tapped me, and I find myself laughing again. It doesn't feel so wrong this time.

"Let's go find Sophia," I tell him, something like hope replacing the pain in my veins, shoving away the growing darkness in my heart.

Daryl grunts and readjusts his crossbow. "After you," he gestures. I curtsey—just to be a smartass—and make my way back to the others, a new resolution set in my blood.

Sophia's not dead. We're going to find her.

And she's going to be _fine._

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><p>Daryl's surprised when Walsh puts him in charge of the search party, though maybe he shouldn't be. With Walsh and Grimes both stayin behind to search the surrounding woods more carefully, Daryl's the only competent motherfucker left. Well except for the kid, at least in regards to weaponry. Concernin trackin, she's probably worse off than any of the other city folk.<p>

He suddenly has the thought that one day, if they ever get their feet back under them, he'll teach her how to properly track. It's practical and…friends do that sorta thing right?

He picks at his cuticles cuz he doesn't know the answer.

A few yards away, Grimes is kissin his wife and the rest of the group is splittin off. The couple starts arguin bout who's takin Grimes' gun and, before Daryl even knows it, he's steppin up, pullin the gun he had found in that yellow tent out of his waistband.

"Here," he mumbles, holdin out the small revolver. Lori blinks at him, shocked, and he averts his eyes with a shrug. "Got a spare. Take it, if ya want it." There's a moment of hesitation, but the woman takes it with a quiet thank you. Daryl shrugs again and starts for the woods.

He doesn't miss Audrey turnin her head to hide a smile though, and somethin in his head taunts that now he's just bein nice to impress her. Daryl tells himself it's cuz he doesn't want to lose her friendship over somethin so simple as him bein a dick, but somehow that feels like a lie; he just doesn't know _why _it does.

They continue along the creek bed for some time, fanning out farther and farther. It's slow and fuckin frustratin. Daryl knows he could cover more ground on his own but every time he half turns to tell everyone he's goin on ahead, Audrey's right there, fumblin slightly, wincin quietly, but forgin on all the same. And every time he looks back—every goddamn time—he'll catch her green eyes and she'll smile, and he resigns himself to this slow march, slowin down even further when Audrey sounds like she's havin a hard time breathin.

"You…you don't have to wait for me," she pants at one point. Daryl is leanin against a tree, tryin to look like he's inspectin somethin along the ground and not doin exactly what she's accusin him of. "I'll be fine. Keep going."

Daryl purses his lips. "Just bein thorough," he grunts.

Audrey rolls her eyes. "You're coddling me. And I don't need it. Finding Sophia is what's most important right now." She reaches out, touches his forearm gently. Daryl feels a shock zap under his skin, and somethin in him says _Static, just static, _a little too quickly. "Seriously. I know we're slowing you down, me most of all. Go out ahead a bit; see what you can find."

"Walsh said to stick together."

"And when have we ever really done what Shane wants?" Audrey laughs. The afternoon sun filters through the trees, glints off her teeth, the sweat trailin down her neck. Daryl can see how tired she is, knows any pain med he gave her has long since worn off. But she's still tryin, still trudgin along for that little girl. He remembers the way she pleaded with him to go out and look for Sophia, and he remembers the press of her bones as she hugged him. The kid was desperate then, but she's determined now. Maybe he should have a little more faith in her.

Chewing on his lower lip, he lets his gaze skip over her face—the motley of bruises and split skin—but nods all the same. "Yeah, okay. I'll head out a little, look for a trail."

Someone suddenly clears their throat. Daryl looks up to see the Chinaman shiftin from foot to foot, fidgeting with the black hatchet in his hands. "What is it Glenn?" Audrey asks. Her tone—gentle and almost nervous—makes Daryl cut a quick glance at her. Is she still fightin with the chink? The hunter tries to remember the last time he's seen them talk.

"I uh…I just don't think," the young man stutters. "I just don't think we should split up anymore."

Daryl scowls, skin pricklin. "I can take care of myself."

Chinaman actually levels him with a small glare before looking away. "Not really you I'm worried about," he mutters. The hunter snorts cuz, hey, least the chink's honest. Besides him, however, Daryl feels Audrey tense. He hears her throat click as she swallows, about to respond, but Grimes' wife beats her to it.

"I'm with Glenn on this," she says. Her blue eyes don't settle on anything in particular, sweeping around them with worry clear as day in their color. "We should stick together. Especially after that gunshot."

That gunshot. Daryl feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Bout thirty minutes ago, they heard it crack through the woods, distant but sharp. It was only the one though, and the echo faded too quickly for them to track the direction. Everyone's been on their toes since then, and honestly Daryl's still a little uneasy himself. And if he's stuck a little closer to Audrey in recent minutes, he's keepin that knowledge to himself.

"It was just one gunshot," Andrea says. "Rick and Shane probably just took down a walker."

Lori actually snaps at the blonde for being patronizin, says Grimes and Walsh would never have risked the noise for one walker, especially with Carl around.

"What if it was a signal?" Sophia's mother whimpers quietly from the side. "What if they were trying to signal us for help? O—or that they found Sophia!" She's sittin on a fallen log, has her arms wrapped around herself, cuppin her elbows. Daryl abruptly remembers that is Ma used to hold herself the same way, small and defensive, makin herself as invisible as possible. He remembers that—sometimes—Audrey stands like that too. He hates to wonder what the similarities imply.

At his right, Audrey shakes her head from side to side, and she's so close that Daryl feels the phantom brush of her hair on the jut of his shoulder. "No," she says. "They still wouldn't risk it. If they found Sophia, they would just go back to the RV and wait for us. Why draw attention?"

She doesn't address Carol's first situation—that maybe they were calling for help. But Daryl can see the rest of the group contemplating it, watches as Lori's face darkens with worry. They're all thinkin themselves in circles, and they ain't got time for it.

"Look," he grunts out. Five pairs of eyes swing to him, and he hates it but someone's gotta start talkin some sense. "There's nothin we can do bout it anyway. We can't run around these woods chasing echoes."

"So, what do we do?" Lori asks. Daryl wants to snap at her, still angry about all the times she's sneered down her nose at him, but something in her tone draws him up short. It's almost like…she's genuinely asking him, askin his opinion. He's so thrown for a loop that he answers without any snark.

"Keep beatin the bush for Sophia. Make our way back to the highway. Same as we have been."

He waits for the inevitable argument, the sharp comments, but no one says anythin. The girl's mother shudders out a breath, wipes at her eyes, but gets to her feet all the same. She's the first to start walkin and, one by one, the others follow; Lori even nods at him as she passes. Daryl stares after the lot of them in shock.

Takin a step around him, Audrey hip checks him. He sways slightly with the force of it. "Don't look so surprised, Dixon," she says. She's grinnin up at him for some reason, her bright eyes a stark contrast to the dark bruises fannin out across her cheek and nose. "Your face might get stuck like that."

Daryl glares at her halfheartedly; her grin doesn't even flicker. "Shaddup," he mutters under his breath. "Just expected more of a fight."

Shruggin, the kid picks her way over a log, her sword rattlin against her spine. "There's nothing to fight about," she says. "You're right, and they all know it." She pauses at the top of a slight rise and looks over her shoulder. A bead of sweat slides down the curve of her jaw. "You coming?" she asks, cock of an eyebrow, twitch of the mouth, _teasing. _Daryl blinks out of his stupor, tries to shake off her words—no one's ever said he's been _right _before—and trudges after her. The tips of his ears are burning and his heart stutters in his chest when he brushes past her, skin tingling where they've touched. Audrey won't stop smilin, and Daryl feels a little lost, disoriented, feet unsure beneath him.

It's not a feelin he particularly likes, not ones he's familiar with, so he can't be blamed when he snaps at the girl's mother and the blonde who have stopped a little bit ahead, snifflin and talkin bout prayin.

"I'll tell ya what yer prayin is worth," he growls as he stalks up to them. They take a step back and _that's _what Daryl's used to, what he knows and expects. "Not a damn thing. It's a waste of time. Cause we're gonna locate that little girl, and she's gonna be just _fine._"

The two women gape at him, scandalized, and he turns away with a scowl. "Shit. Am I the only one zen around here? Good lord."

Somewhere behind him, he hears the kid laugh, quiet and a little breathless. He stumbles only slightly at the sound—at the pleased feelin that settles low in his chest because of it—before leadin the group on through the trees.

Somethin in him feels guilty about the smile twitchin in the corners of is mouth, about the lightness flutterin in his chest, when they still haven't found that little girl. But Daryl just tells himself they have hours before sundown, and the little girl was small, slight, she couldn't have gotten very far. He tells himself they'll find her within the next hour and has almost been convinced by his own words.

Then, the screamin starts.

The shrieks echo through the leaves, vibrate in the dirt beneath their feet. It takes Daryl a moment to recognize the blonde's voice, and when he turns he realizes he can't see her. As he starts to run, cursing, Daryl thinks the worst of it will be another bitten member, another person lost. The thought hits him low in the chest, like a punch, but he's been rollin with those all his life so he just keeps runnin, crossbow at the ready. He has no time to be thrown, to stumble, but he can't keep his eyes from searchin out Audrey, lurchin at his side, harsh pantin breaths replacin the laugh in her mouth. He has half a moment to worry about her—memories of another dead blonde and Audrey's dead green eyes, flat voice—before they all burst into a clearin.

The next few moments don't seem real. Then again, the world hasn't seemed real in months. It just keeps gettin shittier and shittier and Daryl really shouldn't be surprised anymore.

"There's been an accident. Carl's been shot."

The _instant _the girl on the horse—bloody bat in hand, walker at her feet—fumbles out those words, Audrey inhales so sharply it sounds like a scream. Daryl feels her half collapse against his shoulder, nails diggin into the fabric at his back, and she shakes so hard it rattles _his _teeth. The world slows down for just a moment, drags through molasses, everythin frame by frame, before it slingshots back into motion, things happenin in rapid succession.

Lori gets on the horse.

Daryl shouts after her, chaotic thoughts of their group whittlin down to nothin.

The girl kicks the horse into motion, and they're gone. Just like that. The name "_Greene" _trails behind them, curled around vague directions to a farm and the sound of hoof beats.

The others call after them, frantic shouts, high pitched with fear and confusion.

To his right, Audrey lists into a tree, knees givin out, her green eyes wide in her pale face.

It all happens so fuckin fast, like heartbeats, like gunshots, rapid-fire, and Daryl thinks _of course. _

He thought the worst of it could be a fuckin bite.

But the goddamn world just loves to prove him wrong.

_Every. ._

* * *

><p>The setting sun is hot against my lower back, sweat damp in the waistband of my shorts, snaking trails through the dirt on my arms, chest, and legs. Parts of my skin feel blistered and tender, my knees are sore and bruised, but it is such a distant feeling, like a bug buzzing in the back of my head. I ignore it. I ignore everything. Nothing exists outside the paintbrush in my hand and the white paint drying in sticky patches on the windshield in front of me.<p>

"Looks good."

I glance over my shoulder for a moment and shrug. "It's not the Sistine Chapel, but it will do."

Andrea hums and shifts to lean her hip against the bumper. The car sways and my 'c' comes out crooked. "Need any help?" she asks.

"No, I'm fine." I dip the brush again and curve my wrist, making a lopsided 'o.' My throat constricts, lungs hitching around a shallow breath, but I ignore it, shake it off. The 'm' is only a little shaky when I put the brush to glass again; the 'e' is meticulously straight.

Behind me, Andrea laughs quietly, the sound dry and more than a little bitter. I wish she'd leave, but she doesn't, just nudges the car again. "Fine," she parrots. There's something quietly acidic in her tone, like the word was corrosive coming up. I hear her shift in the gravel, kicking at loose stones, an empty can. "Yeah, aren't we all."

My spine tightens under her words, beneath the images in my head of blue eyes and golden hair and an easy smile. I focus on finishing the word 'every' and ignore the way each exhale rattles past my teeth, uneven and trembling. Andrea continues to fidget, the sun continues to set, and always the cicadas hum in the distance.

"Listen," Andrea says just as I'm rounding out a 'd.' "Audrey, I…I want to apologize. For before…that Dale and Shane thing. I was out of line."

It takes me a moment to remember what she's referring to—a heated argument beside the RV, Andrea's tongue sharp, her words serrated: "_She stayed behind too. Why don't you put __**her **__on suicide watch?" _I had been so upset that she called me out, so ready to fight. I can barely recall the memory now; it seems so long ago. God. It was only yesterday.

Not even pausing or turning to face her, I shrug again and say, "It's okay. You were right to be pissed. I stayed behind too. Shane was…being a little unfair."

The older woman scoffs. "A little? He was playing favorites, and you know it."

I purse my lips at her tone, her words, and concentrate on the 'a' I'm making. "That isn't exactly how I'd put it. I've never been one of Shane's favorites."

Andrea makes a sound of derision. "No, really," I say. "Maybe I was in the very beginning, but lately I've been too stubborn and…a lot of other things to earn Shane's good graces. To earn anyone's really. I'm not exactly who I used to be." The thought should bother me, and in a vague way it does but I have too many other things to worry about, too many other pains to keep me occupied.

"Yeah well…neither am I," Andrea mutters. There's the sound of shifting gravel again and the gentle swaying of the car beneath my knees. I keep my eyes steadfastly forward and try not to twitch as Andrea enters my peripherals. After a moment's pause, she lays her fingers against my right arm where it's propped against the hood, trying to keep my balance despite the way my wrist burns in protest. Her fingers catch on my cast slightly as she says, "You should get some rest. God knows the next time we'll get any more right?"

I hum something noncommittal, and it seems to be enough for Andrea. She starts to slip away, back to the RV, but my mouth falls open before she gets very far. "Andrea."

The blonde pauses, glances over her shoulder. She has an eyebrow raised expectantly, and the expression makes her look so like Amy that I ache with it. "I'm sorry too," I say. My voice is rougher than I intended, throat tight under the onslaught of too many emotions warring under my skin. "For calling you a bitch this morning."

It's such a little thing; I don't even know why I'm remembering it, why I've even mentioned it aloud. And truth be told, I'm not all that sorry. I stand by what I said. But my skin feels small, and my lungs hitch around every breath, and I still have the words _Carl's been shot _rattling around in my brain like buckshot. I just don't want the last thing I ever said to her to somehow be those ugly words.

But Andrea smiles all the same, small and quiet, and says, "Don't be. You were right."

She really does slip away after that, and I'm left kneeling on the hot hood of an old, yellow car, paint sluggishly trailing down my wrist. I stare after her for a moment and remember that I used to like Andrea back at the quarry, back when she was still Amy's older sister. She was smart and kind and Amy always sounded so _proud_ when she talked about her, sung praises about Andy the lawyer, the shinning star of the family.

But the quarry is a long way behind us. And Amy is dead and gone. And we're not the same people anymore.

Something in me wants to feel guilty; a voice whispers in the back of my head that Andrea is Amy's sister and that I should _try _for the sake of my dead friend. But I push the thought away because Amy is _dead _and Sophia is _missing _and Carl's been _shot. _I don't have the energy or the time make nice with all the people I should. An image flickers to the forefront of my mind, just for an instant: Glenn, sliding behind the wheel of that station wagon with T-Dog listlessly slumped in the passenger seat, the dust kicking up behind them as they drove off towards the unknown Green farm. That small, guilty part of me threatens to grow larger, but I don't let it. Clenching my first until white paint oozes through my fingers, until my knuckles ache, I turn back to my handy work and decide to go over the letters one more time.

By the time the paint is tacky but mostly dry, the sun has finally slipped below the horizon. The highway is eerie in the bruised twilight, shadows smudged and dancing, the sky an ominous purple. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I feel twitchy still kneeling on the car's hood. Exposed. The RV is a small distance away and Dale, Andrea, and Carol are already inside. The little voice at the back of my mind says it's time to go inside.

The gravel crunches dully under my feet as I slide off the hood. My knees wobble, blood rushes to my toes, and it's all pins and needles. My hip collides with the side of the car, and the sheathe of my tanto rattles loudly against the metal, noise jangling down the deserted highway.

I grimace at the echoes, eyes clicking back and forth, watching for movement. But the shadows are just shadows, the ghosts just ghosts. I clench my fists nervously—wrist aching—and feel paint tacky along my fingers. Throat a little dry, I reach for the rag I've hung on the rearview mirror when an empty can skitters across the asphalt behind me.

"Easy," Daryl's voice mutters. He's standing a car length away, tired and grubby in the wan half-light. He's got something in both hands, long and thin looking, but I can't exactly make out what they are as he approaches.

Blood rushing through my ears, I uncurl my fingers from the hilt at my hip. "Are you _trying _to give me a heart attack, Daryl?" The damn thing is hitching in my chest, unsteady and nervous.

The hunter is close enough now that I can see him roll his eyes. "Sure. Next time I'll just holler down the highway." He moves his hand up to his mouth, and I finally can see what he's holding. A bubble of laughter escapes me before I can stop it, annoyance giving way to disbelief and probably some slight hysteria.

"What?" Daryl mumbles around his mouthful. He sounds a little defensive but there's an amused glint to his eye.

"You have a squirrel kabob," I say like it's ridiculous because it _is_. The long, thin shapes in his hands had been branches, stripped down and bare, and squirrels were skewered on them lengthwise. The branches even had some leaves and a berry or two stuck on the ends, a poor but still welcome imitation of grilled what should be grilled onions and bell betters. Still, while they were small, wiry things, the smell of cooked meat made my stomach grumble. Now that I think about it, I've had nothing but snacks and a small portion of beans and fruit since we left the CDC.

Daryl cocks an eyebrow at me, chewing slowly. "So ya don't want one then? Fine. More for me." He tilts his head to take a bite from the untouched kabob in his left hand, but I stumble forward to stop him.

"No, wait! I didn't say that."

I reach out, and Daryl smirks as he hands me my squirrel on a stick. "Careful," he warns. For a moment, his fingers wrap around mine, steadying the stick in my palm. My stomach flutters for an instant, intense and boiling, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. God, I must be really starving. "It's still hot."

And it blessedly is. The meat is gamey, and the only seasoning is the ash from the fire it was cooked on. But it's warm and filling, and I take two full bites recklessly, tongue burning as I swallow. My eyes water, and I know Daryl must see, but he doesn't say anything. I don't miss his smirk, though, before he takes another bite.

"Thank you," I rasp when I've already finished a third of my roasted squirrel. Daryl shrugs and leans against the front bumper of the car I'm still propped up against.

"Ain't nothin. Saw these two along the guard rail near my bike."

I hum as I chew and suddenly wonder if I should share this with the others: Dale, Andera, Carol especially. I look down at my half gnawed squirrel. It's not much, wasn't much to begin with, but it's still warm, still better than a stale bag of chips. Guilt starts to pull at me again, but then Daryl is brushing by me suddenly, the skim of his arm against mine jarring and distracting.

"Where are you going?" I ask, pivoting on my bad ankle.

As it turns out, not very far. Daryl slips just behind me, between the front tire and the driver's side door. He stares at my writing on the windshield—_SOPHIA STAY HERE _

_WE WILL COME BACK EVERY DAY—_as he chews. "Looks good," he says, Andrea's words repeated in his rough voice. His fingers trail along the few stray drip lines where I had used too much paint.

I shrug even though he can't see it. "It's nothing," I say, parroting his own words back at him. "Besides, you're the one who came up with the idea."

"Well someone had to use some common sense."

One hand occupied and one mostly out of commission, I settle for butting my head against the back of Daryl's shoulder. "Be nice," I scold him. I can almost _feel _how hard he rolls his eyes at me. He doesn't say anything in response though, and the two of us lapse into silence.

Night continues to fall along the highway. The cicadas sing their humming tune. It's only when Daryl clears his throat, and the sound actually jostles me, that I realize my forehead is still pressed to his shoulder. I blink my eyes open sluggishly—and when had they closed?—before taking a step back.

"Sorry," I mutter. It's a lot darker now, suddenly, the shadows now deep and black. I hear a quiet murmur from the RV, just barely able to make out the individual voices of Dale and Carol. "We should probably head in." After Glenn and T-Dog left, we had all decided to sleep in the RV tonight. Daryl will probably take watch though; I can't successfully picture him being in such close quarters with so many people.

"Finish yer dinner first, kid." He prods at my arm, and I drowsily bring the squirrel back up to my mouth. A yawn cracks my jaw half way through my third bite.

Daryl finishes his meal first, tearing off the last piece of meat with a sharp yank of his teeth. He flips the bare stick away from him with a casual twist of the wrist, and it clatters away into the night. I cast the hunter a sidelong glance as I slowly chew, taking in the sharpness of his cheekbones and the hungry look in his eye. Without thinking I extend the rest of my squirrel at him.

"Want the last few bites?" There's a leg and some meat around the chest left. It's just started to go cold at the center.

Daryl shakes his head and there's the beginnings of a scowl upturning his lips. The effect is slightly ruined by a yawn he isn't able to suppress either. "Ya need it more," he grunts.

"You're bigger than I am," I reason.

"And yer healin. Yer body needs it more," he says firmly. He narrows his eyes as me and adjusts the strap of his crossbow that's digging into his chest. "Just finish the damn squirrel, kid. Stop being such a stubborn jackass."

I stick my tongue out at him but acquiesce. I finish within a few bites, licking the excess grease from my fingers when I'm done. I look up to find Daryl staring at me with an odd, unreadable expression on his face.

"What?"

Daryl starts as if I've shouted at him and looks away, off into the woods. "Nothin. Ya done?"

I nod and toss my own stick away. Somehow, it collides with the can Daryl kicked earlier, and the noise is sharp, loud, _seizing_.

Like a gunshot.

My stomach churns suddenly—squirrel and nerves and dark thoughts tangling below my sternum—making me sick. My ears ring. To my left, the waxing moon rises. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots. Dry mouthed, I wet my lips and, instead of grease, I taste blood.

"Do you think Carl is dead?"

The words leave my mouth like buckshot from a shotgun: painful and stinging and tearing a hole right through me. All day I've been avoiding the thought but now, here in the dark, it latches onto my mind with a vengeance. Daryl doesn't respond immediately. I don't think he can, and I can't look at him now. Turning my head, I stare down the highway, eyes weaving in and out of cars, tracking ghosts. I fill the silence when the pressure in my chest threatens to burst.

"You know, I can't remember the last thing I said to him." Daryl shifts, uneasy, on the gravel beside me. "I mean it was just this morning, just a few hours ago and I can't…"

The image of him—Carl, young and blue eyed and _whole_—makes my knees give like they've been cut out from under me. Shuddering, I press the heels of my palms against my eyes. Colors flash—reds and blues and greens—and I'm smearing sudden, hot tears hoping Daryl won't see. "Fuck. Sorry. I'm sorry." I'm shaking my head, taking a step back, bumping into shadows in the dark. "I told myself I wouldn't do this anymore. I'm so fucking tired of crying."

And I am. I'm so tired of not being able to save those closest to me. I feel so useless. So fucking _weak. _For all that Sensei taught me, for all the lessons I've learned over the years—_hard _lessons, brutal and sharp—I am still no stronger than that five year old Mitch backhanded across the living room, no stronger than the crying little girl that Adam Keene picked up off the floor. The realization is like a blow to the back of the head.

"I like you better cryin than crazy," Daryl suddenly mutters in the darkness. I open my eyes, wet and sore, to see the hunter start at his own words. "Not…that I like ya cryin," he grunts. "I mean it's just better than…ya ain't crazy either, kid, I didn't mean…" He struggles with the words so earnestly I almost want to laugh. The misery is too heavy on my chest now though, and I settle for shaking my head.

"Don't hurt yourself, Daryl," I tell him, and he shuts his mouth with an audible click. Before he can get offended, however, I say, "I understand what you're trying to say and…thank you. You're a good friend."

The words sound stupid coming out of my mouth, too blunt and childish, but something in me needs to say them, and something else in me says Daryl needs to hear them. The hunter remains silent, and in the dark I can't see he eyes, but I think I can see a pale red tint to the curve of his ear.

"It wasn't your fault," Daryl responds gruffly, and I'm confused until he continues. "The boy, Grimes' boy. It wasn't your fault. He had both his dad and Walsh to look after him. You were five miles away and trying to find that little girl."

"Who is still lost." My voice is quiet and fragile. Sophia's face floats, disembodied, in my thoughts. Daryl's voice is as steeled as my sword when he grits back, "That ain't no fault of yours either. The girl was in the middle of the group, the horde came out of nowhere, and we were far down the road. Ya can't be responsible for everyone, kid."

He's right. I know he's right. But I still can't shake this _guilt _that's pressing down on my shoulders, spine creaking under the weight. I wonder for a moment at the fate of Atlas, forced to bear the world along his back for all eternity. I am not a Titan, however. One of these days, the weight is going to crush me, and there will be no pieces left to put back together, Humpty Dumpty, just send all the king's horses and men home. It's now only a waiting game to see when that day will come. Staring up at the pale moon above us, distant and indifferent, I wonder if dawn will break me.

But I'll worry about that at dawn. For now…

"Let's go inside. The others are probably worrying."

Daryl doesn't seemed convinced by my faux concern, but it's not like he enjoys this conversation any, so he grunts something noncommittal and takes a step towards the RV. I fall into step behind him, and we've just reached the door when Daryl pauses and looks back at me over his shoulder.

"If you had been there," he says quietly, voice pitched so low I can barely hear him. "With either the girl or the boy, ya would have saved them."

He says the words firmly and with such conviction that I can do nothing but stare at him, mouth falling into a soft 'o.' Daryl doesn't wait for me to find my voice, just opens the door and climbs the RV steps. The sun set almost twenty minutes ago now, but my skin feels oddly warm all of the sudden. I scrub harshly at my cheeks trying to chase away the sensation.

"Audrey?"

Dale stands in the doorway, that worried look stamped across his face. He's taken his hat off though, no need for it in the RV or in the dark, and he looks strange without it. Older. Frailer. I think about little girls with bird bones, lost in the woods, and little boys with paper thin skin, bleedingbleeding_dying_ under the unforgiving Georgia sun.

"Is something wrong, Audrey?" Dale prompts again.

I try to smile, but it's a limp gesture, twitching along the edges like a dying thing. "Just…been a long day, Dale," I tell him. I am suddenly all too aware of the exhaustion weighing in my bones like lead, all the little injuries that have sapped me of my strength. The older man makes this pitying noise before he ushers me into the RV, hands gentle as he guides me into the kitchen booth across from Andrea. The blonde looks up from the dissembled gun on the table—had she made her peace with Dale then?—and nods at me but doesn't say anything. In the back of the RV, a vague shape in the dark, Carol is crying. The soft sobs—interspersed with Sophia's name—fill the small space we inhabit like poison. Guilt sits like a bad taste in the back of my throat, and I see the same tight look in Daryl's eyes as he leans against the kitchen sink. Andrea goes back to her gun, metal clacking as she cleans dark, little pieces in the wan moonlight. Dale leaves the RV to take watch, and the swaying off his footsteps on the roof makes me drowsy, my cheek rocking gently against the kitchen window.

I fall asleep somewhere between Andrea loading her gun and Daryl settling along the floor, head pillowed on his hands. No matter how reluctant I am, my eyes end up drifting closed anyway, my body pushed past its limits, shutting down.

Carol continues to cry in the dark—_Sophia, Sophia, my baby girl—_and I sleep uneasy, dreaming of blood.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Welp. There ya go folks. **

**Again, I'm sorry I abandoned this story for so long. I'm really trying to be better. **

**Anyway, not that I deserve any, but if you have comments or questions (or just wanna yell at me) feel free to drop me a PM or come message me on tumblr. :) **

**Tumblr: **

**_Reviews are appreciated but knowingly undeserved. _  
><strong>


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